


Class ~ P Z.?> 
Book . T\ n 4- s a C 

Copyright If 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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FRANK 


DOUGLASS. 







Col. Harold de Lacey 



FRANK A. DOUGLASS 

'\ 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

JOSEPH TYLER BUTTS 



F. TENNYSON NEELY CO. 

114 Fifth Avenue 96 Queen Street 

NEW YORK LONDON 




'^FUfiRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
' r, vo Copies Received 

WAY. tg 1902 

COPYRIGHT entry 

J4/. > o t tqoo 

CLASS COy&&. No. 

3 ll<c 

COPY B. 



r* 

O 


Copyright, 1900, 
by 

FRANK A. DOUGLASS 
in the 

United States 
and 

Great Britain. 
Entered at Stationer’s Hall, 
London. 


t < < C c 


. .All Rights Reserved. 


• • 
• • 

• • 


Col. Harold de Lacey. 


TO THE 


“BOYS IN BLUE,” 

Whether on Land or Sea, 

It Is Affectionately Inscribed. 

This fabric of an army romance has been woven 
from “warp and woof ' of fact and fancy. For 
twenty years , or more, I have been soldier and 
journalist. Now I hang my cavalry sabre upon the 
wall to. rest and turn to the fields of romance. 
Under various flags — and chief over all the Stars 
and Stripes — I have followed the trumpet's note. 

On the great plains of the West , in the sun- 
hissed tropics, I have heard many a camp-fire tale; 
and from the embers on memory's tenting ground 
I rahe out this story of cavalry life, which I now 
present to you as a gift of the New Year — the 
dawn of the 20th Century. 

Frank A. Douglass. 

Puerto Principe, Cuba . 


ffl 



































































































































- 







































PREFACE. 


“Nor peace , nor ease the heart can know. 
Which, like the needle true, 

Turns at the touch of joy or woe — 

But turning trembles too.” 

There are resistless influences surrounding us 
from birth, which shape our destinies and lead us 
on through devious paths to life’s goal. “What is 
to be will be” is a doctrine as true, as certain as 
the laws of the universe. The barque is built of 
the best timbers, by skilled workmen, and fur- 
nished with most perfect appliances — and amid 
the plaudits of the gathered throngs is launched 
on shining waters to fulfill its destiny. Right gal- 
lantly it floats adown the stream and outward upon 
the broad ocean — but ere it reaches the port for 
which it sailed, maybe “many times and oft” de- 
flected from its course by wind and storm. Un- 
seen forces at its launching hover over it, unex- 
pected gales blow it far out of the beaten path of 


vi 


Preface. 


its craft, unknown seas wash over its newly deco- 
rated sides, and its crew become alarmed for its 
safety amid the waste of seething waters. But, if 
the star of destiny at last beams through a rift in 
the inky clouds, its navigator may readjust his 
needle, guide it back to safety ere it strands upon 
the reefs, and after many days reach the harbor 
for which he steered. 

Anchor may be cast in smooth waters, and the 
battered, storm-tossed barque be repaired. 

So, a human life may be born into the world, 
and, from its tenderest infancy to young manhood, 
be cradled amid all that ennobles and embellishes 
existence — then resistless influences, which have 
worked quietly, potently, will bear it onward into 
maelstroms, plunge it into rough, unbeaten paths, 
bring it into the domain of despair, where the rain- 
bow of promise ne’er spans the sky; yet, in the 
end, will come from the outposts of life’s darkness 
the sweet refrain: "All’s well.” 

Frank A. Douglass. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Among those whose paths are in peace, few com- 
prehend the horrors and suffering of war which 
generations have waged to lift the world to its 
present civilization and mantle its people with the 
protecting garb of safety and comfort. 

It is only when the pen of a skillful writer re- 
calls the facts of history by putting them in a 
setting of brilliant romance, whose beauty thrills 
the heart to its depths, and brings out in strong 
relief the deeds which courage and determination 
have accomplished, that we realize the true mean- 
ing of war. 

No more dramatic or interesting tale could be 
desired than the history of this nation, and when 
one, whose mind is as brilliant as his sword is 
powerful ; whose life, as thousands of others has 
been at his country’s call since childhood; to 
whose ear the roar of shot and shell and the whiz 
of bullets is as familiar as his mother’s voice; 


viii 


Introduction. 


whose vengeance is as pitiless as his sympathy for 
his wounded mates is tender, relates what he knows 
are actualities, with startling, realistic skill, do we 
reflect upon his work with an added intelligence 
and a keener appreciation of the lives and work 
of warriors, who have and will fight to the death, 
in the cause of justice, right and the protection of 
their loved ones. 

The author has told an instructive and exciting 
story, for it recounts all the thrilling history of 
this country since the war with Mexico, and the 
principal characters become most real as their 
deeds and those of their children are followed to 
the events of the present day. 

Life at West Point, its joys and troubles, the 
forming of friendships which become history, the 
hopes and aims, the success and defeat of its many 
fellows, throw new light on this often told subject, 
and in it are many charms hitherto overlooked. 
Rarely has army life, of both officers and soldiers, 
in the Western prairies been more vividly told. 

A more exciting existence it would be difficult 
to imagine or one more dangerous and delightful. 

One can never be indifferent to warfare against 


Introduction. 


ix 


the treacherous Indian after the heartrending, 
truthful tales told of their cruelty, cowardice and 
ingratitude in this absorbing book. 

No tongue could fashion these things, no mind 
imagine them, and no pen could tell them with 
such force and convincing reality, were they not 
subjects near to the heart of those who know them 
to be absolute truths, and were witnesses of their 
performance. 

Interest centres itself, however, in the conflict 
which shook these states, hitherto united, to their 
very foundation, broke ties of friendship strong 
as death, and brought sorrow and desolation to 
most of their peace loving dwellers. 

Love of country overcame all other sentiment in 
the War of the Rebellion, and friends closer than 
brothers fought one another with deadly intent. 
Curious and malignant were the relations caused 
by this circumstance, but none more strange than 
in this ingenious work. It is only after the close 
of our war of justice in Cuba that the entangle- 
ments of this distressful period of history become 
extricated, and again embark in peaceful channels. 

People in all the various walks of life will read 


X 


Introduction. 


this charming book with avidity, and find as recom- 
pense in its beautifully written pages — diversion, 
recreation and satisfaction — which will take them 
away from themselves and leave always a respon- 
sive chord of admiration for the author and his 
work. 

It must not be supposed, however, that the 
pages which here await the reader sound the stern 
alarums of war alone, and that the pictures drawn 
are all of the battlefield and the camp, for, min- 
gling with the roar of cannon and the bugle’s blast 
there emanate from the chapters rare whisperings 
of love and tender pledgings, which serve as a fasci- 
nating contrast to the more martial voices. 

It is not until the author has pretty well de- 
veloped the general trend of his narrative, deftly 
indicating to the reader the scope of the work he 
has undertaken and outlining the great object 
lesson he proposes to unfold, that the hero, Colonel 
De Lacey, whose name furnishes the title to the 
story, is introduced. 

What goes before is designed to lead up this 
magnificent martial figure and to prepare the read- 
er for a fuller understanding of the qualities of 


Introduction. 


xi 


the hero before he is himself revealed in the dare 
devil soldier and gallant knight, who could only 
have been the product of generations of chivalrous 
ancestry and at whose cradle the crooning of watch- 
ful nurses was often drowned by the shouts of san- 
guine conflict. 

Young De Lacey, as we see him in his very 
earliest manhood, is an interesting combination of 
honorable purpose and elemental, irrepressible 
spirit, such a spirit as dwelt in Hengist and in 
Horsa, and such a power as inspired William the 
Conqueror to set the stamp of his genius forever 
upon the greatest race on earth — the Anglo-Saxon. 

No namby-pamby figures these, no spoilt dar- 
lings of the parlor, but strong men with strong 
passions, that could joust or frolic with the best, 
break strong heads and bring a quicker beat to 
tender hearts, and who if opportunity offered could 
make the bumper pass right merrily when the God 
of battles gave them rest. 

The incidents which the author introduces to 
give us a faithful picture of his hero are ingeni- 
ously conceived. A golden-haired youth we find 
him under the tutelage of a Southern hero, in 


xii 


Introduction. 


whose spacious home he is surrounded with all 
that indefinable subtle aroma of chivalry and honor 
that has made Virginia a proverb in the language 
of our land. His father is meanwhile helping 
J uarez make his glorious fight for Mexican liberty,, 
and of his mother he has but a charming portrait, 
the tender eulogies of those that surround him, and 
a silent marble shaft. 

In introducing this bitter loss of a beauti- 
ful mother, suffered so early in life, the author 
proves himself a true artist and student of human 
character, for it is doubtful if as ardent and well- 
attuned a soul as that of young De Lacey would not 
have been lured into different channels than those 
of adventure and military glory, had the restrain- 
ing sympathy of a mother guided the early forma- 
tion of his character. 

As it is we find him persuading his father 
and friends to send him to West Point, against 
their will. While at the Military Academy he ac- 
quits himself creditably in his studies, but is final- 
ly expelled for hazing. He flees, and enlists under 
an assumed name as private in the far West, where 
he performs some noteworthy feats of valor in the 


Introduction. 


xiii 


Indian wars. However, in justice to the author 
it is not right to go too closely into the incidents 
of the remarkable plot of the book. Suffice it to 
say that the young soldier fights under more flags 
than one and that his fist is as ready to strike a 
blow in resenting an insult as his sword is eager 
to engage in the battle of nations ; but crowning it 
all is the ever tender sympathy of a noble heart. 

The close of the Cuban war ends the hero’s 
military career, so far as this book is concerned, 
and sees him happily united with a beautiful 
woman whom he has long loved. 

The female characters are drawn with the hap- 
piest inspiration by the author, who, as has al- 
ready been indicated, has made war and the life 
of the camp and the barracks his profession for a 
generation and from whom one would scarcely ex- 
pect the graceful tenderness of charm with which 
he depicts woman in her varied emotions. 

The book is a romance almost kaleidoscopic in 
the infinite variety of pictures conjured up with 
magical rapidity and beauty and is worthy a place 
of honor in every library. 

Joseph Tyler Butts. 
























COLONEL HAROLD DE LACEY, 


CHAPTER I. 
a. d. 1842. 

Geraldine Heathcote was a daughter of the 
North, having been reared on the Hudson, near 
West Point. In her girlish days, when she stood 
“where brook and river meet,” her brother Jack, 
a cadet, had brought home as his guest a young 
comrade, Henry Preston, of whose prowess he had 
long filled his letters, and whose praises, when at 
home on furlough, he had sounded “many times 
and oft.” A fortnight had passed, filled with 
pleasant rambles, horseback rides, coaching par- 
ties and twilight gatherings on the verandas, in 
which Geraldine had shyly joined her brother and 
his comrade in arms from the Point. She ad- 
mired the bonnie, fair-haired, blue-eyed youth 
from the Southland, and her eyes sparkled with 
approving light as she watched him perform won- 
derful feats of skill and strength in practice with 
her brother. She watched with breathless interest 
their broadsword contests on the lawn, an art in 
which Preston was the champion of his class — 
cool, suave, active and wonderfully graceful in 


2 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

his methods of attack and defense. In their horse- 
back rides she could not but notice the complete 
control he exercised over his mount, and how hand- 
some he looked as they galloped along the shaded 
country roads, yet full of youthful fire and buoyant 
spirits. She was charmed with his voice when, 
accompanied by her guitar, he sang the soft negro 
melodies which he had learned in childhood at 
“Sunny side” in Virginia — they were new and 
pleasing to her. He was twenty-one and she just 
seventeen; ages when love ripens rapidly and im- 
pressions are deeply imprinted upon the heart* s 
tablets. 

On Preston’s return to West Point to take up 
again the routine of cadet life for his closing 
year, he bore with him a lovely image of a fair 
young girl, whose soft brown eyes had rested upon 
him so kindly, yet mistily, at parting. A lissome 
figure standing on the portico, between her moth- 
er and father, a soft, beautifully shaped hand 
waving a dainty bit of lace as they turned the 
bend in the driveway which shut off the view 
haunted him for months to come. Bright messages 
were borne to him in her brother’s letters, and 
best wishes from her parents to the young guest 
who had been within their gates. 

Months fled on leaden wing to both Preston and 
Geraldine. Hot a word had been spoken, yet each 
felt that some day Fate would cause their bargues 
of life to be drawn into the same channel and 
they would drift side by side in pleasant waters. 

Preston and Jack Heathcote were the “Damon 
and Pythias” of the graduating class; Studious, 
talented, obedient, yet full of ardor, they had both 


3 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

won cadet promotions in Co. “D,” Captain Preston 
commanding, Heathcote next in rank as first lieu- 
tenant. 

“Exams” were over, and they had led the class. 
Their names were on the “roll of honor” at the 
top, and the families and friends of both over- 
whelmed them with praise. Proud youths, yet 
their heads were not turned. The same boat had 
brought to the Point the Prestons from Virginia 
and the Heathcotes from “Highland View” to wit- 
ness the Class Day and attend the hop. The Vir- 
ginians and the Heathcotes were soon introduced 
to each other and the strong ties which had bound 
their sons for four years united them in close bonds 
of friendship. 

'Twas a gala day of sightseeing, witnessing the 
field exercises, wandering about the quadrangle, 
along the parade, *neath the interlaced branches 
of “Flirtation Walk” or resting upon the verandas 
where the music of the band floated to them soft- 
ly, sweetly; then dinner en famille. 

“Night had drawn her sable mantle down and 
pinned it with a star.” The closing exercises had 
ended, the day was done. The moon rose slowly 
above the hilltops, and, mirrored in the waters of 
the Hudson, rested upon wood and lawn with sil- 
very lustre. The bugle note and roll of drum 
sounded “Tattoo,” and lights in barrack walls were 
out. But now the hop room presented a brilliant 
pageant. Myriads of lights shone from within, 
revealing the gathering throngs of beauty arrayed 
in dazzling toilets, chaperoned by stately matrons. 
Officers in uniforms of blue and gold lace; cadets 
in full dress of gray and black braid. 


4 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

The elders of the Prestons and Heathcotes had 
formed a quiet circle, and from their point of 
vantage could look forth upon the brilliant throng. 
Young Preston had early claimed the right to in- 
scribe his name in various places on Geraldine’s 
programme, and now their parents watched them 
whirl by, gracefully treading the waltz measure, he 
with flushed, triumphant face and she radiantly 
beautiful. Their hearts were stirred by close con- 
tact, by thoughts of the past summer days, by the 
rapid dance and sweet strains of music. 

Ah! Youth is life’s springtide, when flowers 
blossom, birds sing and mate and the frozen hills 
of age in the far distance seem clothed with trop- 
ical verdure. 

The moon had long passed its zenith when the 
band struck up the soft, sweet air of “Home, Sweet 
Home.” The ball was over, good nights were 
spoken, the brilliant pageant had faded away; yet 
the scenes of the night were long to linger as pic- 
tures on memory’s walls. 

In the grey dawn Preston and Jack Heathcote 
were gathering together their belongings, the evi- 
dence of four years as cadets. They had been 
granted four months’ leave, and on the morrow 
were to bid farewell to the Point, to enjoy their 
vacations at home, before joining the regiments to 
which they would be assigned as subalterns on the 
frontiers. The Prestons had consented to spend 
the following week at Highland View, provided 
the Heathcotes would come to Sunnyside in Au- 
gust. The Virginians became much attached to 
the Heathcotes in the week which sped by in their 
hospitable home on the Hudson, and at its close 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 5 

urged them to hasten their promised visit to the 
Southland. 

August days had rolled round, the forests were 
clothed with dark-hued verdure. The feathered 
choristers sang blithely in the cool, shady retreats, 
the fields were waving in the warm breeze of sum- 
mer; fruits and flowers were in rich profusion, 
and the portals of Sunnyside were thrown wide to 
receive its Northern guests. No stone was left 
unturned to make their visit memorable. A slave 
was assigned to each member of the family. The 
days were spent in looking over the plantation; 
in hunting, fishing, rowing, lawn fetes, picnics, 
long drives through picturesque dales and wood- 
lands, in which they were joined by neighboring 
families, filled the fleeting hours. The evenings 
were delightfully passed on the cool verandas, in 
the card room, or in boating on the moonlit, placid 
waters of the Rappahannock. 

August was fast drawing to a close, a month 
which had thrown Henry Preston and Geraldine 
much together. 

A few days only lingered ere the Heathcotes 
would go North, and the happy summer days would 
be succeeded by the “sere and yellow leaf 7 of au- 
tumn. In the late afternoon Preston and Geral- 
dine had strolled to the riverside, and as the water 
looked inviting they stepped into a shallop and 
floated with the current slowly down the stream, 
which bore them close by the banks beneath the 
sweeping branches of willow and elm. Birds sang 
in the branches above them, there was a gentle hum 
of insects in the luxuriantly wild shrubbery, a few 
stray sunbeams fell upon Geraldine’s bright tresses, 


6 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

her face was suffused with rosy hues and her fair 
hand was firmly held in the strong grasp of her 
boy lover. 

“Geraldine,” he said, while a blush mantled his 
'brow, “from the time you waved your farewell to 
Jack and me, when we returned to the Point a year 
ago, my heart has told me that I love you with a 
devotion that all the years of the future cannot 
blot out. Your sweet face has appeared to me 
amid the irksome duties of the day and haunted 
my dreams at night. I have ofttimes longed to 
clasp this little hand in mine and tell you the ‘old, 
old story 5 , trusting that you might return my love. 
No sister’s voice has ever filled our home with 
gladness, and my mother will rejoice to claim you 
as a daughter. Will you some day be my little 
wife, sweetheart, and walk along life’s highway 
with me hand in hand, heart with heart ?” 

A whippoorwill sang to its mate in the depths 
of the leafy recesses ; the bright waters of the river 
sparkled in the late afternoon sun ; from the fields 
beyond came the distant songs of the black har- 
vesters; and with misty brown orbs Geraldine 
looked up into the eager face of him who loved 
her, who had paid to her the highest tribute which 
man can offer to woman. A thrill of joy possessed 
her, she was proud of this great love which he now 
cast at her feet. He had been the idol of her, 
brother for four years of cadet life, and her ideal 
from the first week of his visit at her home on the 
Hudson, one year before. 

With heart filled with emotions which her lips 
could not express, with imprisoned hand trembling 
in his, her face lit up with radiant light, her deep 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 7 

affection shining through her tears, she gave him 
his answer in one short word, which has brought 
happiness ineffable to thousands, sorrows untold to 
many — 

“Yes.” 

Footsteps crushed the dry twigs on the river’s 
brim near them, a corpulent figure bore aloft a 
fishing pole, while a can of bait was tightly 
clutched in a fat, black hand, and a big, round, 
good-natured face, crowned with a woolly pate, 
now laughed down upon them from the bank 
above. 

“Wat you doin’. Mars Henry, scarin’ all de fish 
’way sose old Car’line can’t git no bites. ’Pears to 
me you forgits dat I nussed you all dose years 
while you wus a baby, an’ you’d a died shuah wid 
de mesles or de hoopincof or de scarlit feber, if 
it hadn’t a bin for Car’line. Heah you is 
a-spoonin’ to dis sweet little gal from way up in de 
Norf an’ de fish done stop bitin’ sose dey kin cum 
down heah an’ look at her prutty face, an’ I haint 
ketch nuffin but a crawfish, an’ I bleve he blind.” 

After delivering this unexpected address to her 
young master Aunt Caroline stood and looked 
down upon them, while her teeth were broadly dis- 
played in her ebony face. She had been his nurse 
in infancy, watching over him with tenderest 
care, and his horse in early childhood, bearing him 
about the plantation on her strong back to show 
him the beautiful steeds in the stables and kine 
in the meadows. And how she had worshipped 
and idolized the fair-haired boy as he grew up 
strong and sturdy as the young oak of the forest ! 
How she had missed his merry laugh, his youthful 


8 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

pranks, his handsome face when he had reported 
at West Point to join the Cadet Corps! Now, 
most innocently, she had witnessed the last act of 
the love scene. Geraldine, perforce, smiled through 
her happy tears, her cheeks took on the hue of the 
wild pinks along the shore, she sought to disengage 
her hand, still held by her acccepted lover; but 
Preston clasped it more firmly, and, after a merry 
peal of laughter, lifted it up in his own and said: 

“Aunt Caroline, Mis little, gal from way up in 
de Norf’ has just promised to be my wife, and if 
you will give your consent I think our parents 
will agree to our union. If you don’t, we will stay 
right here and stop all the fish from biting, and 
you will have to go back with only your crawfish 
for supper.” 

“ ’Fore de Lawd, Mars Henry,” she replied, “you 
does lub to tease ol’ Car’line, an’ I jes pity de one 
you marries. She won’t hab no peace all day, 
shuah. I’s a-gwine to tell your ma dat since you 
has got outen dresses dat you is an awful forward 
boy, an’ need watchin’ wen you goes out a-botin’. 
If I’s to git a new red bandana hankchif do, an’ a 
new cottonade dress to wear to de weddin’, den I 
’gree to de marriage.” 

With a prolonged chuckle Aunt Caroline trudged 
heavily away down the river towards the mill, and 
the soft winds bore back her mellow voice, singing 
the old plantation song: 

“OV Massa gib me holiday , he said he'd gib me 
more, 

I tanked him berry lcvndly as 1 shoved my boat 
ashore ; 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 9 

Ari as down the ribber I glided, wid a heart so lite 
and free. 

To de cottage ob my lubly May, de gal 1 so long 
to see. 

“Oh, deares * May, dou art fairer dan de day; 
Your eyes so bright, dey shine at night 
Wen de moon am gwine away ” 


10 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER II. 

The August sun was fast sinking behind the 
forest-clad hilltops, casting long shadows over the 
vales below. The laborers in the fields were toss- 
ing up the last shocks of golden grain and ending 
their daily tasks. A soft haze fell upon the river, 
and the lazy, floating clouds caught the last glow 
of the sunlight as Preston rowed slowly home- 
ward, his heart beating with new life as he looked 
upon the sweet face of his promised bride. 

On the veranda were gathered their parents, 
enjoying the brilliant sunset, inhaling the per- 
fumes from garden and field, all unconscious of 
the youthful romance being enacted in their midst. 
Young Preston boldly advanced upon the group, 
Geraldine timidly following, her cheeks glowing, 
her heart pulsating rapidly, her eyes half con- 
cealed by drooping lashes. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, as he flour- 
ished his broad Panama hat and made a profound 
obeisance, “permit me to introduce to you my 
promised wife, the future Mrs. Henry Preston. 
Father and mother, you will gain a lovely daugh- 
ter, while Mr. and Mrs. Heathcote will add to 
their household another son. We have plighted 
our troth this day and have Aunt Caroline’s con- 
sent, so now we stand before you with the hope 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 11 

that you will bless our union and not say us: 
Nay.” 

*Twas a startled group of elders, for but little 
thought had been given to the results of the con- 
stant companionship between their children. But 
now came this startling revelation from the lips 
of the embryo army officer, a thunder clap as it 
were from an unclouded sky. Eyes looked to eyes 
that spoke the story of halcyon youth, of loves 
born years ago with the fruition of these young 
lives, blood of their blood, bone of their bone. 
The beautiful days of courtship and marriage in 
“auld lang syne” were now portrayed to them on 
memory’s canvas, and they drank copious draughts 
from the fountains of life’s springtide. Here was- 
a noble son, a petted daughter, following in their 
footsteps, desiring to become united for time and 
for eternity and to assume the relationship of 
man and wife. Each elderly heart beat in unison, 
and, rising with one accord, they surrounded the 
two culprits who had stolen a march upon them 
and bestowed their blessings and wishes for a fu- 
ture of unalloyed bliss. 

Up the walk came Jack, swinging along with 
military stride. “Hello !” he cried, “what in the 
name of the commandant means all this stage pa- 
rade? No trumpet call has sounded, no warning 
note to call me ‘to arms.’ Why these tears of 
joy, this circling of fours ’round these innocents ?” 

Breaking away from the circle, Preston ad- 
vanced to the steps up which Jack was climbing, 
and, extending his hand in welcome, replied to his 
queries of surprise : 

“Jack, you are just in as the curtain falls on 


12 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the last act of to-day’s melodrama. We are to be 
brothers in future as in the past.” 

A new light flashed into Jack’s eyes; his face 
was radiant. Springing up on the veranda, he 
called to Geraldine: 

“Paragraph 1. — Whereas Second Lieut. Henry 
Preston, U. S. Army, unassigned, while on leave 
has been sorely wounded by the shafts from Cu- 
pid’s quiver and is for the present totally incapac- 
itated for the performance of any military duty, is 
hereby granted permission to leave this Depart- 
ment and visit Highland View to recuperate be- 
fore joining the regiment to which he will be as- 
signed. 

“Par. 2. — Asst. Surgeon Geraldine Heathcote, 
contract physician and healer, is hereby detached 
from other duties and will use every art known 
to her science to heal the wounds so received by 
Lieut. Preston, striving in every way to fit him 
for service under the colors which he has assumed. 

“Par. 3. — The condolence and sympathy of the 
Department Commander are hereby tendered to 
the bereaved parents of both Lieut. Preston and 
Surgeon Heathcote, inasmuch as they will be tem- 
porarily deprived of their dutiful services.” 

Then he folded Geraldine in his powerful grasp 
and heartily wished them a happy wedded life. 

’Twas a joyful home gathering in the gloaming, 
and plans for the future were discussed ere the 
marriage should be consummated. In a few weeks 
the boys would be assigned to some regiment on 
the Western borders, to be initiated into the duties 
of subalterns in distant garrisons and camps. They 
had chosen the army career, the life of the soldier, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 13 

and henceforth must serve the flag of their coun- 
try in peace and in war. Geraldine was to enter 
a Seminary in Boston for the coming two years, 
to finish her studies, and after her graduation the 
wedding should take place in the June days at 
Highland View, on the banks of the Hudson. The 
golden days of August came at last to a close — 
days which filled Sunnyside with brightness, yet 
brought the shadow of pain as farewells were ut- 
tered and the Heathcotes were borne away north- 
ward. 

* * * sfs * * * 

Two years of wind and current are but a short 
voyage on Time’s great river, yet often mark epochs 
in our lives, bring us to many strange ports. The 
young subalterns were now bronzed by months of 
camp life on the plains of the West; they had 
passed unscathed through many dangers, and*, 
having been assigned to the same regiment, had 
ofttimes shared the same night vigil and solaced 
each other after many a weary march. During all 
these months no opportunity came- to return to 
their homes ; but now May was dotting the prairies 
with myriads of wild flowers and “leave” had 
been granted them to be absent from their com- 
mands for ninety days. They were homeward 
bound, counting the days and hours ere they could 
reach the sacred confines of the walls which had 
sheltered their childhood and youth. The broad 
bosom of the Ohio bore the craft on which they 
steamed eastward, and on the moonlit deck they 
sat and watched the boat’s prow cleave the waters, 
which were rushing onward to join the turbid 
Mississippi, “the father of waters.” In June wed- 


14 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

ding bells would ring their joyful peals and orange 
blossoms would grace the queenly head of Geral- 
dine. Two long years had passed since they had 
seen each other. Letters had been oft exchanged 
breathing of love, of fond affection, but “eyes had 
ne’er looked love to eyes that spoke again.” They 
were to part at Pittsburg, each to first visit their 
parents and in the bright days of early June the 
Virginians would fly northward to witness Geral- 
dine’s graduation, then join the family party on 
the Hudson for the wedding, which was to take 
place on Geraldine’s twentieth birthday. 

Shall we describe in detail the home-coming of 
Jack Heathcote and Henry Preston, how these 
youngsters were welcomed by loving arms, lionized 
and petted; or shall we leave it to your imagina- 
tion to paint these bright pictures? The latter 
course seems best, and we pass over the happy 
days intervening between their return and the 
joyous ringing of wedding bells at twilight on a 
lovely J une evening a few weeks later. 

The most elaborate preparations had been made 
to launch the youth and maiden upon life’s sea in 
a staunch barque, and many relatives and friends 
had gathered from far and near to be in attend- 
ance. The walls of the country chapel were beau- 
tifully decorated with floral wreaths interlacing 
the Stars and Stripes. Brilliant lights cast their 
bright rays over the interior, which was soon filled 
with a gay, expectant throng. At the rear a ros- 
trum had been erected and beautifully carpeted, 
in front of which hung the floral wedding bell. 
As the clock chimed the hour of eight the organ 
gave forth the deep notes of the march, and the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 15 

wedding party entered, treading to its glorious 
measure. The bride, “fairer than the lily, sweeter 
than the rose,” leaning upon the arm of her father, 
advanced down the central aisle, attended by her 
maids in file upon the left, while upon the right, 
in column of files, came Jack and two of his class- 
mates of '43, followed by Preston. 

.Standing beneath the wedding bell, with the 
brilliant rays from myriad lamps softly resting 
upon the fair loveliness of the bride, and the hand- 
some, chivalrous young soldier, the vows were 
plighted which united their lives and made their 
destinies as one. No picture was ever fairer than 
when side by side, hand in hand, heart with heart, 
kneeling before the minister of God, this fair 
young couple spoke their nuptial vows and entered 
upon a new life to travel together the same path- 
way, whether strewn with flowers or with thorns. 

Numerous were the congratulations from the 
assembled host of friends ; and never before in that 
chapel on the Hudson had appeared a fairer, 
brighter array of feminine loveliness and brave 
manhood. The soft lights, the flashing eyes, the 
rosy cheeks, the sweet perfumes — all delighted the 
senses and appeared as a fairy scene. 'Twas a 
witching hour, long to be fresh and green in the 
memories of all who participated in the joyous 
occasion. 

The honeymoon was spent between Highland 
View and Sunnyside; then trunks were packed, 
and, with Jack as escort, they followed the course 
of the sun westward to garrison, near St. Louis, 
where their regiment was quartered. A glorious 
welcome was in store for the newly wedded pair, 


16 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

for both Preston and Jack were extremely popular, 
and the fame of Geraldine’s beauty and accom- 
plishments had been noised abroad. The marriage 
had been discussed over many a tea by the ladies 
and harped upon at mess by brother officers. Their 
arrival marked the beginning of a series of enter- 
tainments, and for more than a month, though the 
weather was torrid, the garrison strove to heap 
honors and attentions upon this young couple. 
Then they settled down to the army life as it was 
in those days long gone. From Sunnyside they 
brought with them a few faithful slaves, including 
Aunt Caroline, who insisted upon her indisputable 
right to follow in the train of her young “Mars 
Henry.” 

A year and a half passed on fleeting wing, and 
daily, unless rain prevented, could be seen a baby 
carriage rolled along the walk in front of officers’ 
row, propelled by the sturdy arms of Aunt Caro- 
line. Again was she in the seventh heaven of ec- 
stasy, for a girl baby had arrived in the quarters of 
the Prestons some months before and filled the 
army home with gladness. Now, amid silken cush- 
ions, “little Mary” reclined and cooed to Aunt 
Caroline’s crooning, while father, mother and 
Uncle Jack perforce looked on from the porch, 
well knowing that those big black hands were en- 
dowed with infinite tenderness and gentleness. 
There was to be a family reunion at Christmas- 
tide x for the grandparents of little Mary would 
brave the discomforts of the long journey and hie 
them to the post on the banks of the Mississippi to 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 17 

see their children after long separation and gaze 
upon this little mite of femininity, whose infan* 
blue eyes would laugh back at them. The regiment 
would be ordered to Mexico in the early spring to 
join the expedition under Gen. Scott, and Geral- 
dine was to return eastward with her household, 
while Preston and Jack were following the for- 
tunes of war in a tropical clime. 

The “lone star of Texas” had the year before 
been added to the Union’s galaxy, and with her 
statehood brought the brands of war. Now the 
fires were blazing far and near and eager hands 
grasped sword and pennant, anxious for the fray. 
Christmas anthems of “peace on earth, good will 
to men” throughout the land were drowned by 
the trumpet notes calling “to arms, to arms.” Yet 
there was a happy gathering of parents and chil- 
dren beneath the army roof and no thoughts of 
war or battles fierce were permitted to steal with- 
in their portals for the nonce. Joyful bells rang 
out the Old, rang in the New Year, and joy was 
unconfined. Then came the first farewell of mar- 
ried life between Preston and Geraldine. “Fare- 
well ! A word that hath been and must be ; a 
sound that makes us linger, yet farewell.” A 
strange anomaly exists in the breast of a true born 
soldier and patriot when, on the eve of departure 
for the scene of war, he lingers between the heart 
pangs of partings with loved ones and his eager- 
ness to follow his colors on fields of battle, to 
mingle in the thickest of the fray. Preston and 
Jack had yet to win their spurs and smell the 
smoke of war, to meet the shock of serried hosts 
on well-fought plain and feel the wild thrills which 


18 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

victory brings or tbe deep pangs wrought by de- 
feat. 

Their mettle was up, the fires of youth and 
valor burning brightly upon the altars of their 
hearts. So, on a winter’s day the reunion was 
broken and the young soldiers waved sad adieux 
from the shore to the family party as the steamer 
bore them away to Northern and Southland home. 
A God, omnipresent, would cast them round with 
lines of safety, reunite them when victory would 
perch upon the banner of the Stars and Stripes 
and peace be proclaimed. Their regiment was 
being rapidly outfitted for service in “the land of 
the Montezumas,” so that they could be embarked 
on transports at an early day and join Gen. Scott, 
to sail with him for Campeche Bay. 

At last came the day of embarkation and pa- 
triot hearts beat fast at thought of bearing “the 
banner of the brave and free” in one grand tri- 
umphal march from the sea to the walls of the 
City of Mexico. Together with an army of twelve 
thousand men they landed south of Vera Cruz, 
invested the city, bombarded the Castle of San 
Juan d’Ulloa and on the 27th day of March, 1847, 
raised the American flag over “la ciudad de Vera 
Cruz.” Before them lay an open route to the City 
of Mexico, and in August this victorious band 
took up the line of march through the passes of 
the Cordilleras, viewing from their high positions 
the beautiful valley of Mexico, more beautiful far 
than*the plains of Italy. Here was a living land- 
scape of waving fields, of nestling villages and 
lakes, whose waters sparkled in the rays of a trop- 
ical sun. On they moved over causeways, leading 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 19 

along marshes and the beds of bygone lakes, hurl- 
ing death and defiance at the Mexican forces, 
planting the Stars and Stripes upon Contreras, 
San Antonio, Molino del Rey, Cherubusco and 
Chapultepec, victory spreading her wings over the 
daring Americans, who had bearded the lion in his 
den. On the 14th of September the war-worn reg- 
iments marched into the City of Mexico and the 
morning sun saw the banners of the invaders float- 
ing over the halls of the Montezumas, Santa Anna 
having fled without the gates. Right gallantly 
had these young subalterns borne themselves in the 
sanguinary conflicts, and both were gazetted for 
promotion for deeds of daring. Preston was un- 
scathed, seemingly bearing a charmed life; but 
Jack Heathcote was twice wounded. 

Their regiment was the first to enter the gate 
of San Cosme and stamp upon the dust of the 
streets the footprints of victors. 


20 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER III. 

In the American camp Jack Heathcote lay 
jwounded. 

“There was lack of woman's nursing, 

There was dearth of woman's tears." 

But Preston stood beside his couch and watched 
the bright flush of fever mounting upon his cheek 
and brow. The wounds and exposure had brought 
on a lingering, dangerous illness and he was nigh 
unto death. 

His last act was to prevent an invasion of rude 
soldiery into the “Hospicio de Santa Maria,” and 
the gracious thanks of the Mother Superior were 
showered upon him. Hither then he was removed 
under the guidance of Preston and the regimental 
surgeon and ensconced in a cool, quiet chamber 
away from the din of the stony streets. 

A Sister was detailed to nurse him back to 
health and strength, to moisten his wounds and to 
administer his medicines. This Sister — “Hermana 
Juanita” — had just passed from the novitiate into 
the Sisterhood, and was young, beautiful and ac- 
complished. She was of an old Castilian family, 
which long since bade farewell to Andalusia’s 
plains, seeking and gaining fortune in the land 
over which Cortez had unfurled the flag of Spain. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 21 

Two years of her childhood had been spent with 
relatives in far-away Texas, under the shadow of 
the Alamo. Her childish footsteps had glided 
along the grassy banks of the San Antonio River 
and she had joined the throngs at the old Mission 
for the matin and vesper service. She had partly 
mastered the English tongue, but preferred the 
soft idioms of her race. Her father had been a 
bitter opponent of the “bloody dictator,” Santa 
Anna, and as a forfeit had yielded up first his rich 
estate, then his life, leaving behind him only 
Juanita, who tearfully sought the sanctity of the 
Sisterhood and entered the seclusion of the Santa 
Maria, an order of charity. 

Tenderly she commenced the discharge of her 
duties as nurse and began her brave battle with 
death. In the weeks which sped away before the 
“treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo” Jack Heatheote 
stood upon the banks of that river which, if 
crossed, permits no traveller to return. The sad- 
faced Azrael hovered over him ; but he waved him 
back, fighting against death and the grave. The 
fairylike Sister Juanita watched by his couch, 
gave cooling draughts, smoother his fevered brow, 
pressed back the nut-brown locks which graced his 
temples; performed all those tender cares which 
only woman can give in sickness, and in so doing 
her heart went out to him — she loved at last with 
all the fervor, the idolatry of her race, with that 
deep, passionate affection which the Spanish maid- 
en knows but once and forever. 

Jack, with his Apollo-like face and figure, his 
curling, gold-tinted locks, his patient, daring 
struggle against death, seemed to her a very god, 


22 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

and as the hours passed slowly by she realized that 
henceforth the promise of heaven would fade into 
insignificance without his love, his care. She sat 
by his bedside and counted the hours as they 
passed, pictured the yawning chasm which seemed 
ready to engulf her in its seething waters ; counted 
her beads, prayed for guidance and strength to 
resist the passionate love which swept over her 
with resistless power, causing her to almost curse 
the hour when she took the vows of eternal celibacy 
and became the bride of Christ. 

Days lengthened into weeks ere the sufferer’s 
mind was freed from the distempered fancies of 
fever, ere he could rationally watch the slight, 
graceful figure flitting about his couch. Weak and 
worn to a shadow, his face pale as marble, his 
manly strength merged into the helplessness of 
infancy, he lay quietly and bent his gaze upon the 
“Sister of Mercy.” Her lustrous eyes, her soft, 
caressing touch mesmerized him and he would 
wander away in dreamland, fancying that an an- 
gel folded its wings above him. 

Jack would often gaze upon her sombre-clad, 
lissome figure and seek to converse with her, but 
she answered shyly at first, telling him that “el 
medico” had insisted upon perfect quietude. Twice 
daily Preston and the surgeon would come now 
and sit by him, telling him of war’s progress lead- 
ing to peace, giving him the news of the camp and 
city. 

Upon their coming J uanita would steal away to 
the gardens to get needed air and exercise and to 
still the fierce beatings of her heart, dreading lest 
the “Americanos” might read her secret. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 23 

J Twas in these days of convalescence, when alone 
with Jack, that she taught him slowly the soft, 
flute-like idioms of her native land. Pointing 
out each article in view she would pronounce the 
Spanish name and he would strive to understand 
and repeat after her. To him then her voice 
sounded as the music of murmuring, distant 
waters, like the wild bird notes heard in Virginia 
forests, full of melody. 

He was hopelessly, irretrievably lost in the subtle 
meshes of love. Yet how vain seemed this over- 
mastering passion. She was the bride of the 
Church and the curse of a cruel fate separated 
them forever. Keturning strength came but slow- 
ly, as the body was preyed upon now by the un- 
controllable desire to possess this Sister for his 
own, to bear her away from the land of her nativ- 
ity, to wed her and live through coming years 
basking in the light of her presence. 

The days sped on, bringing in their train no 
hope of a realization of his wild dreams, no sign 
of felicity. The cool breezes from the Cordilleras 
fanned his cheeks, but a hectic flush burned deeply 
on the marble skin, white and deathlike save for 
the bright spots ever visible. The tender minis- 
trations of Juanita added fuel to the flames blazing 
on the altars of his heart, and in the twilight, 
overcome by the witchery of the gathering night, 
by the charm of her presence, by the spell which 
hovered o’er him, he clasped her to his heart and 
poured into her ear the tale of his love. He told 
her of his far-away home by the Hudson, of the 
majestic mountain ranges, the flowery dells, the 
waving grain fields ; of his family, who would wel- 


24 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

come with loving arms any woman whom he chose 
as a wife. They would cause her to forget her 
broken church vows, her past, the severance of 
the holy ties which bound her at consecration. 

Yielding at first to the deep, impassioned love 
of her race, she nestled in his arms, permitted 
his lips to meet hers in passionate kisses, clung to 
him with fervent ardor, showering caresses upon 
his cheek and brow. But reason returned and she 
shuddered at the thought of leaving the sanctity 
of the convent, of breaking in twain the bonds 
which entwined her to a life of celibacy ; and her 
superstitious fears predominated for a time over 
the love which had almost engulfed her. She with- 
drew from his embrace, knelt at his feet and con- 
fessed her attachment dearer than life, but be- 
sought him on the morrow to go forth and join the 
“soldados Americanos” and forget the Mexican 
maid, who in her weakness and youth had wan- 
dered from the paths of holiness, formed a worldly 
love and set up an idol of clay in the realms of 
her soul. 

Silently Jack watched the kneeling figure, 
heard with submission her prayer and “passed 
under the rod.” He was yet weak, nervous, and 
his frame shook with anguish at the thought of 
parting from his “pearl of great price.” He re- 
solved to rejoin his command on the morrow and 
henceforth bear the great burden of his hopeless 
love safely locked within his breast. Here would 
lie the grave of life’s brightest hope, unseen, un- 
known and unmarked. 

He would so live that when death at last should 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 25 

crush the golden urn of life he might meet and 
claim this beloved maiden “beyond the river.” 
Sleep visited not the tear-dimmed eyes of either, 
and in the early dawn each sought by separate 
paths the patio , seeking balm in the perfumes of 
the flowers and shrubs beneath the moonbeams’ ra- 
diant light, now merging into the fast advancing 
beamings of Aurora’s dawn. 

Fate, watching over their separate footsteps, 
caused their paths to meet under the broad spread- 
ing branches of an “arbor vitae.” Here then they 
stood again face to face, their hearts almost burst- 
ing with sadness at thought of farewell, to meet 
no more on earth; and in pathetic silence Jack of- 
fered her his hand, clasping hers in lingering, 
deathlike parting. Gazing into her upturned face, 
reading there the deep anguish thrilling her heart- 
strings, he besought her again to flee with him 
into the American lines, where the chaplain would 
make them one. He could procure sick leave and 
escort to the sea and bear her far away to his 
home on the Hudson, where a fond mother and 
father would receive her as his bride, as the wife 
of his bosom. 

Her spirit was in sore travail, her bosom heaved 
tumultuously. She sought refuge in reason and 
was lost. Yielding to the pleading voice of her 
lover, who held her in a close embrace, she was 
bound for time and for eternity by the golden 
chains of love. 

In the sweet morning’s dawn, beneath the 
boughs of the arbor vitae — the tree of life — they 
plighted their troth. From her smooth brow he 
drew the white band and lifted the veil of con- 


26 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

secration, shook out the raven curls which graced 
her queenly head, and, gathering blossoms and 
tendrils, wove a wreath with which he crowned her 
queen of his heart — to wield from that sacred 
throne a sceptre of love. 

The chiming of the matin bells, the rattling of 
wheels upon the stony streets, the early songs of 
the birds, the shrill cries of the vendadores, the 
gay laughter of the lavanderas passing to the foun- 
tain, the bugle note sounding reveille from the 
American camps, the brilliant sunlight falling on 
the dews of the night — all bespoke the new day. 
Again for the nonce she replaced the head dress of 
her order, concealing beneath her sombre wraps 
her crown of flowers. As they had come, so they 
returned by separate paths within the walls of the 
Hospicio. No prying eyes had witnessed the love 
scene amid the dense shrubbery of the patio. 
Throbbing hearts tell no tales, yet Juanita felt, 
as she knelt at matin service in the midst of shad- 
owy Sisters, that all eyes could perceive the bright 
glow which deepened upon her cheek, the added 
lustre beaming in the windows of her soul. Jack 
had slipped outside the garden gate and repaired 
to the quarters occupied by Preston, who was now 
A adjutant of his regiment. There was unusual 
brilliancy in his eyes, a swift return of old time 
buoyancy, an unexpected spring in his soldierly 
stride. Preston had been with him the day pre- 
ceding, and, with arm linked in arm, they had 
slowly paced the shaded walks in the gardens of 
the Hospicio. Jack’s steps had been faltering, he 
had leaned heavily on the supporting arm, he had 
been downcast; and Preston had sought the sur- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 27 

ge on after leaving him and long consulted him 
about the advisability of sending him home at once 
to recuperate. The commandant wished to send 
a trusted messenger to Washington, accompanied 
by armed escort to Vera Cruz, as the bearer of 
important dispatches to the War Department. 
Jack could be sent home in charge of the courier 
and be invalided for some months. The treaty of 
Guadalupe Hidalgo would soon be consummated 
and peace would spread her enfolding wings over 
the two warring nations, and Jack could be spared. 
He had fought gallantly, had proven himself “a 
hero in the strife,” and now needed the quiet rest, 
the endearing cares of home. 

The Mother Superior had told the officers of 
Juanita’s history, of her proud birth and station, 
how Santa Anna had confiscated her father’s estate 
upon charges of treason and finally ordered his 
execution. The Madre herself had sealed her own 
book of life “lang syne,” and on its pages was writ- 
ten a beautiful romance of love in youth. Her 
caballero had fought for Mexican independence 
against the bloody legions of Spain and died cov- 
ered with wounds and glory just as his arms were 
crowned with victory. He had died with patriotic 
zeal in his heart and over it he wore a painted 
image of a fair young girl, at whose shrine he had 
long worshipped. 

’Twas her hand that closed the glazing eye of 
her patriot lover, wiped the death damp from his 
brow; her lip that lingered in one long farewell 
kiss upon his cold cheek; her heart that was now 
crushed and bleeding — to be offered up as a sac- 
rifice to her God. She had been educated abroad 


28 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

and had traversed Europe, speaking English and 
French, besides her native tongue. Jack, by stay- 
ing the hands of ruthless marauders from the 
American camp and preventing them from in- 
vading the sacred confines of the walls of the 
“Santa Maria/’ had become to her as a dear young 
brother. Had she chosen wisely in selecting Jua- 
nita as a nurse, by reason of her. partial knowledge 
of English, when Jack was admitted within her 
gates? Had her eyes been dimmed by the swift 
flight of youth in sacred garb. Had she perceived 
the ardent attachment, the devoted constancy of 
this young Sister for the American officer? The 
world will never know, yet within that gentle 
breast there still lingered remembrances of her 
own youth, of her buried love, and on bended 
knee in the sacristy, her eyes brimming over with 
tears, she sought communion with her God. 

From the invalid Jack had suddenly been trans- 
formed into his old impetuous self; and there 
was elasticity in his step, restored energy in his 
hand clasp as he was made welcome by Preston. 
His heart was too full of his new found hopes to 
dally long with words of explanation. His secret 
was soon told and he paused not in its recital to 
note the consternation and utter bewilderment 
depicted on the face of Preston. 

The latter looked long and earnestly into Jack’s 
beaming face and unfolded to him the plans which 
he had submitted to the surgeon the day before 
relative to his return home on sick leave. The 
“old, old story” should be broached to the com- 
mandant, in whose good graces Jack Heathcote 
stood well, and his application for leave would 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 29 

doubtless be granted and he would be given “a 
safe conduct” to the sea. 

With him his black-robed nurse could go with- 
out creating much comment, as members of her 
order could be found on battlefields, in hospitals, 
ever ministering to the sick and wounded, carry- 
ing with them many a ray of sunshine. 


30 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The day was spent. The vesper bells had chimed 
out their sweet music; the voices of the singers, 
mingled with the deep-toned notes of the organ, 
fell upon the ear from the portas of the cathedrals ; 
gay throngs were fast assembling in the plazas, 
filling the . calles , strolling as is the Mexican cus- 
tom in the gloaming. 

From the gate of San Cosme, through which 
the victorious Americans had made an entry some 
weeks before, there passed now in the dusk a 
a Mexican coach drawn by mules, the swarthy 
cochero urging them on at a brisk trot from the 
confines of la ciudad out into the broad roadway 
leading south and eastward toward Vera Cruz. 

The occupants were the young officer, Jack 
Heathcote, and his nurse, “Hermana Juanita,” 
armed with “a safe conduct” from the command- 
ant and escorted by a small troop of horsemen to 
protect them from the prowling hordes of dis- 
banded Mexican soldiery lurking along the high- 
ways to the sea. Jack’s application for sick leave 
had been promptly granted, and when he had re- 
lated the story of his love for Juanita and its 
passionate reciprocation the commandant had sent 
his orderly to summon the Mother Superior of the 
hospital to report at once to his headquarters. For 
an hour she was closeted with the commanding 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 31 

general in his private office, where no ear could 
hear the subject of the interview; but when she 
emerged therefrom her eyes were dimmed with 
tears, which may have been of joy, for there was 
an unusual glow of color on her cheek and brow, 
a conspicuous elation in her graceful carriage. 
Back to the walls of the Hospicio she turned her 
footsteps and sought out Juanita amid the mazes 
of the shrubbery. 

Heart to heart, soul to soul they stood, while 
voices for a time failed them, and through misty 
eyes each looked upon the other in silence. At 
length the Mother confessed her knowledge of 
Juanita’s worldly attachment, yet chided her not. 
Youth and love had involuntarily caused her to 
forget her Church vows and the order had been 
issued in the American camp granting her the 
privilege of accompanying her lover through the 
lines as nurse. Ho warmer, truer heart ever beat 
in the gentle breast of woman than that of the 
Mother Superior, and she bade Juanita godspeed 
and hoped for her absolution from her broken 
vows a life of wedded bliss free from clinging 
memories of her past. Upon her finger the Mother 
placed a curiously wrought band of gold and bade 
her wear it until they should meet again, if God 
so willed. Thus they had parted, Juanita to pre- 
pare for her departure at nightfall, the Mother 
to spend the intervening hours in prayer and 
penance. 

How, nestling closely within the shadows of the 
coach, her soft hand clasped within that of her 
betrothed, Juanita departed from the home of her 
childhood, from all the lingering memories of the 


32 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

past; and with happy, confiding heart reposed 
her trust in him whom she was soon to call hus- 
band. 

Ten days of ceaseless travel brought them to 
Vera Cruz, within sight of the glittering waters 
of the sea, which was to bear them far away to the 
United States. Riding at anchor in that most 
beautiful harbor was a vessel upon which passage 
was secured for New Orleans across the Mexican 
Gulf. The voyage was a prosperous one and ere 
many days the white winged ship bore them to 
their port. 

In a quiet chapel in the French quarter Jack 
and Juanita spoke the vows which united them as 
one. Juanita, clothed in becoming dress, her 
short, curling ringlets clustering over her fair 
brow, seemed to Jack the fairest, sweetest picture 
on which his eyes had ever rested. And then — 
her voice, how sweet was every tone; her hand, 
ah! how soft, how gentle that touch! No one 
could ever resist the smiles which played about that 
pair of delicately curved lips; and well he knew 
that henceforth and forever he would be her will- 
ing slave and ardent worshipper at her wifely 
shrine. The sea voyage, with its salt air, had 
brought him strength and he was the same old 
Jack of the swinging stride, the ringing laugh, 
the imperious ways. 

From New Orleans letters had been forwarded 
by post from both Preston and Jack, and their 
coming would be anticipated. 

With loving arms would the family welcome 
Jack from the blood-stained battlefields of Mex- 
ico and find place in their hearts for Juanita, his 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 33 

chosen bride, who had so tenderly and tirelessly 
nursed him hack to life and claimed his heart as 
her reward. 

The day had dawned at last — the day of Jack’s 
homecoming. Highland View wore a gala dress 
and the rooms were decorated with wreaths of 
holly and mistletoe, and the conservatories had 
been despoiled of their blooming flowers to deck 
vase and wall. Within was warmth, brightness, 
expectancy. In the large, open chimney place, 
with its high old-fashioned dog-irons, huge logs of 
chestnut were blazing, giving out cheerful heat. 
Without, on the lawn sloping away to the river’s 
brim, rests a white mantle of snow, contrasting 
oddly with the pine boughs of perennial verdure. 
The chestnut trees bordering the long carriage 
driveway are leafless and sway and moan in the 
winter winds. The “sere and yellow” stalks only 
remain above the coverlet of snow to mark the 
flower beds along the gravelled walks. In the 
library, furnished in the rich but antique style 
of those days, were gathered- the Heathcote house- 
hold, including the young matron, Geraldine Pres- 
ton, and “little Mary” and her trusted slave nurse, 
Aunt Caroline. The only disturbing thought was 
of Preston, still with his regiment in that far- 
away Mexican City. But he, too, would shortly 
return and then every heart could rejoice, every 
cup of joy be filled to overflowing. His letters 
also sang Juanita’s praises and bade them wel- 
come Jack’s choice, the tropical flower plucked 
from the bright garden of womanhood. 

In the distance now was heard the shrill whistle 
of the river boat, which was rounding the bend, 


34 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

bearing to them Jack and Juanita. He had re- 
quested that only a carriage and coachman should 
be at the landing, so that their meeting could take 
place within the portals of home. Wheels re- 
sounded upon the driveway, rapid footsteps fell 
upon the veranda, and, at last, wondering eyes 
rested upon the fur-robed figure of J uanita, as fair 
a picture of feminine loveliness as artist eye ever 
conceived, and by her side stalwart Jack, his eyes 
filled with the light of new-found bliss. The 
doors of the reception hall were thrown wide to re- 
ceive them and hand in hand they entered, to be 
showered with kisses and surfeited by many a 
caress and word of endearment. Around that joy- 
ous fireside clustered for a time a group whose 
hearts were thrilled by new emotions, who ex- 
perienced sensations hitherto unknown, unfelt. 
From foreign shores Jack had come back to them 
covered with the scars of war, saved from the rav- 
ages of disease, his name written on the scroll of 
fame, with well-earned promotion for bravery and 
heroism on fields of battle. With him came a 
maid, a wife, whose brilliant eyes of wondrous 
depth and midnight crown of hair bespoke her 
Spanish blood. Her dark eyes, her piquant face, 
her gentleness of manner and soft speech, her ca- 
ressing touch, her winning smile, and, withal, her 
love for Jack opened wide the portals of every 
heart in that home circle. 

The tocsin of war was silenced. “The treaty of 
Guadalupe Hidalgo” had been followed by peace 
between the sister republics. The warworn regi- 
ments had returned to native soil, covered with 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 35 

glory. Preston’s regiment was ordered to the new 
“Department of Texas/’ with headquarters at San 
Antonio, and he was granted leave for four 
months, so that he might rejoin his family, mingle 
once again among the friends and loved ones who 
awaited his return with anxious hearts. A year 
had rolled by since he had clasped to his breast 
his beloved wife, the mother of his little blue-eyed 
Mary, and felt the sorrows of parting with all 
those so near and dear. He and Jack had fear- 
lessly, heroically followed their colors through 
storm of shot and shell, won preeminence among 
their fellows, and their names were inscribed as 
patriots and heroes in the annals of their coun- 
try. As fast as the slow-moving methods of trans- 
portation in those days could bear him he jour- 
neyed homeward. After days and nights, which 
seemed as ages, he came at last to Highland View, 
where a royal welcome had been prepared. ’Neath 
that joyful roof was a scene, a love-feast, a sol- 
dier’s home-coming, that pen dare not strive to 
graphically portray. 

The winter was passing away, yielding to the 
advances of balmy spring. The Prestons from 
Sunny side in Virginia, had reached the home of 
the Heathcotes the day preceding their son’s ‘re- 
turn, and now there was a bright glow of happi- 
ness on every face, every heart seemed brimming 
o’er with gladness. Vacant chairs were filled, 
there was joy in every voice. Since their last re- 
union, more than a year before at St. Louis, a 
new song-bird had winged its way to their nest, 
become domiciled under their sheltering roof, and 


36 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

verily, ’twas a bird of bright plumage, of sweet 
song, a gift from heaven. 

Preston’s fears had vanished in mid-air, like a 
wreath of mist at eve, when he had received a long 
letter from Geraldine just before leaving the City 
of Mexico. After reading its pages o’er and o’er, 
and pressing the leaves to his lips, blessing the 
sweet wife of his bosom, he had repaired to the 
Hospicio de Santa Maria, and sought out the 
good Mother Superior. To her then he told the 
story of love and welcome with which J uanita had 
been environed in that home on the Hudson. How 
deep and all powerful was Jack’s affection, gleam- 
ing like a priceless jewel in the casket of his heart, 
emitting rays of light evidenced by tender cares 
and kind caresses. The passage of time, noted by 
the falling sand in the hour glass, had left no 
trace of regret in the bosom of Juanita for the 
tropical clime, the cloister walls, the soft idiom, 
the clustering memories, the sacred garb, the 
broken church vows. The passionate, ardent 
flame, which at first burned like incense upon her 
heart’s altar, still burned on ; and the idol of clay 
which she set up she still worshipped with fervent 
love, bowing before it, yielding to it all faith, all 
devotion. She was patiently toiling to perfect 
her knowledge of the English tongue, and to ac- 
quire the manners and customs of the land of her 
adoption. The fame of her beauty, of her roman- 
tic idolatry for her husband, of her strange story, 
soon filled the country-side and brought numerous 
visitors to the hospitable mansion, where she 
reigned a beauteous queen in the hearts of all. 

During this recital a flush of pleasure came into 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 37 

the ordinarily colorless cheeks of the Mother Su- 
prior, and often she clasped her hands and cast her 
eyes heavenward, believing that a good God had 
answered her prayers, heeded her days of penance, 
and condoned Juanita’s sin in severing holy church 
ties for a worldly attachment. At parting she 
made him the bearer of her love and her blessing 
to Juanita, and a hastily penned, tear-stained note 
breathing sacred confidences. 

This written message Preston had faithfully de- 
livered to Juanita when other eyes saw not, and 
for a time her thoughts travelled backward to in- 
nocent childhood, budding girlhood, to the lights 
and shadows of other days. Then before her 
vision was outspread the present, with its bright- 
ness, and she closed forever her book of the past, 
and securely locked its pages from human sight. 


38 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER V. 

Texas, the “lone star republic,' ” which had been 
admitted to the sisterhood of states, was an em- 
pire in itself. She had won her independence 
from Mexico, established a Republic with stable 
government, sought admission into the union, 
and after much hostile debate in the halls of Con- 
gress, her “lone star” had been joined to the 
“star spangled banner,” and civilization was 
pushing its way westward among the haunts of 
the wandering Indian tribes. She had her Alamo 
and San Jacinto, her defeat and victory, her mixed 
population of brave pioneers from the States and 
from Europe, and the remnant of the original 
Indian and Mexican races, which had formerly 
roamed the vast prairies or settled in villages along 
the many flowing rivers. She was a slave state, 
and hither had come, and were coming, many 
Southern planters from the old and more densely 
populated sections, lured by tales of fertile lands, 
of grassy plains, of forest and stream. They were 
branching out into new settlements, forming new 
colonies, reclaiming the wild lands from their 
pristine state, from the beasts of the field. 
Around these infant colonies the home and Federal 
governments must cast the arms of protection, 
and establish military posts on the frontier. The 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 39 

most important point for military occupation was 
San Antonio, where generations before Spanish 
priests had founded Catholic missions in the wil- 
derness, and taught their religion to the wandering 
Indian tribes, who had a migratory village along 
the banks of the stream. They had been made 
hewers of stone, and diggers of earth, under their 
Spanish rulers, and urged on by the tyrant’s lash 
had erected lasting monuments along the river’s 
brim to perpetuate their thralldom. By their 
labors, stone on stone was laid, until the Mission 
walls towered far above the plain; and by their 
hands was builded the historic Alamo, made 
sacred by the sprinkled blood of Travis, of Crock- 
ett, and the brave defenders who sought to 
withstand the overpowering legions of Santa Anna, 
in the struggle for Texan independence. By the 
sweat of their brows the acequias were dug, which 
wind their serpentine ways about the town, bor- 
dered by willows and shrub and flower, and 
through which course* the blue, clear waters of the 
San Antonio River, to irrigate the outlying lands, 
formerly the fields belonging to the Missions. 

San Antonio was even then a mart of traffic be- 
tween East and West, lying like an oasis in the 
desert, controlling the coast trade from Indianola, 
or “Powderhorn,” as it was called in those days, 
on Matagorda Bay. Here, then, after the treaty 
of Guadalupe Hidalgo the regiment of Preston and 
Heathcote was ordered and a new military depart- 
ment was created. Small posts and camps were 
established, each serving as a nucleus for a new 
settlement in the wilderness, perhaps a new ham- 
let. 


40 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

As the years fled rapidly by, years of arduous 
service for the — th Dragoons on the frontiers of 
Texas, there were deep rumblings in the North. 
Advocates of the abolition of slavery were lighting 
the torches, which, in years to come, were to blaze 
on a thousand hills, lighting up with lurid glare a 
nation divided against itself in factional strife. 
Slavery was deep-rooted and had been in vogue for 
more than a century. 

The car of progress rolled ever onward toward 
the shores of the far Pacific. The deserts of the 
West were penetrated by hardy, daring pioneers. 
The Federal government had acquired vast pos- 
sessions of trackless, arid plain, and the officials of 
the War Department conceived the idea of breeding 
herds of camels for use in transporting freight and 
supplies across the sandy wastes to outlying army 
posts. A commissioner was appointed, and from 
the burning sands of Africa he brought a small 
herd of the patient beasts, in charge of a Greek 
herder. 

A small post of adobe buildings was founded on 
Yerde Creek, about forty-five miles from San An- 
tonio, amid the foothills, and here was made an 
experimental station of two companies of the — th 
Dragoons. These companies were commanded 
respectively by Captains Preston and Heathcote, 
and the station was called Camp Yerde, by reason 
of the deep verdure of the forest, hill and plain. 
After the lapse of ten years we view again the “Da- 
mon and Pythias” of West Point days of the class 
of ’ 43 . Of magnificent stature, broadened by the 
growth of years, bronzed by days of campaigning 
and nights of vigil, under torrid sun, in bivouac on 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 41 

heated sandy plains, or braving the fury of the 
“Texas norther” — they had both won their spurs by 
arduous, meritorious service, by deeds of daring 
and heroism. 

With them to camp and garrison had gone Ger- 
aldine, little Mary and dark-eyed Juanita, with 
their small households, often changing their abodes 
through the fortunes of a soldier’s existence; but 
never faltering in patient devotion to their gal- 
lant lords. When ordered out on scouting duty 
with their commands these loyal officers to their 
flag bore with them bright images of tearful loved 
ones, who waved adieux from the windows, until 
the dust of the plain shut off the last view of the 
troopers. With Spartan fortitude, Geraldine and 
Juanita would patiently await the welcome sound 
of returning bugle note as the soldiers came march- 
ing home again, ofttimes bearing with them a 
wounded comrade or lifeless body of a daring 
dragoon. Their regiment had seen many a day 
of hard, dangerous service in the passing years 
along the borders of the Rio Grande, or in the in- 
terior, where the infant settlements were often 
raided by the Red Men of the plain, leaving scenes 
of murder and rapine in their wake. 

At rare intervals leave had been granted these 
bronzed campaigners, and they had revisited their 
homes at Highland View and Sunnyside, reveled 
in the luxuries of North and South; but years 
of service on the Western plains, the sound of bugle 
note, the roll of drum, the call to arms, the wild, 
free life of the frontier, the garrison and field 
duties had so changed the currents of their exist- 
ence that they would gladly return to their stations 


42 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

and the soldier’s roof — be it either of shingle or 
canvas. 

Geraldine had matured into the quiet matron, 
whose whole life was wrapped up in her soldierly 
husband and her fair-haired, blue-eyed Mary, who 
had grown up amid her Western environments 
and care-free days like a sweet-scented shrub. She 
was tall for her twelve years, willowy and graceful. 
Her eyes sparkled with mischievous light; her 
mind was carefully home-trained, yet she was es- 
sentially a child of the plain. With Aunt Caroline 
as a nurse, and later as an instructor in woodcraft 
and fishing, the child had grown from infancy to 
young girlhood, loving to wander in the shady 
woods along the streams and breathe the pure air, 
angle for the perch and trout, gather bouquets of 
wild flowers, live amid the tangled wildwood listen- 
ing to the sweet lays of singing birds and hum of 
insects. While yet a child she could ride her Mex- 
ican pony about the garrison at a wild gallop, keep- 
ing her seat as steadily as a dragoon ; and now at 
twelve years she sat so tall and straight in her 
saddle as she rode across the prairies with her 
gentle mother and idolized father that she pre- 
sented a fair picture of a perfect horsewoman far 
beyond her years. Her mother had devoted some 
hours daily to her education since early childhood, 
and she was an apt, bright pupil. 

But from her Aunt ’Nita she received her les- 
sons in music on piano and guitar, and for a child 
had made wonderful progress. How, at her finger 
tips and tongue’s end was a grand collection of 
sweet melodies. 

Her life was full of sunshine, for she was the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 43 

darling of father and mother, the pet of Uncle 
Jack and Aunt ’Yita, the enthroned queen before 
whom bowed Aunt Caroline as devoted slave, for 
whose bright smile every bronzed trooper of the 
regiment would yield willing homage. 

How had the passage of years marked the path- 
way of J uanita, the Spanish maid, who had broken 
in twain sacred bonds to become the soldier’s wife, 
to cast her all at the feet of him who had won 
her love, her eternal devotion ? 

The ties of love between them were deeply, truly 
welded, intensified tenfold as the years of wedded 
life passed by on golden wing. They had filled 
each other’s lives with gladness and not a shadow 
had ever rested upon their pathways, except in the 
loss of their first and only infant — born into the 
world to see the light of only a few short hours. 
Far away, near the banks of the Hudson, the 
moonlight was now resting upon a small, whited 
shaft, where lay all that was mortal of their infant 
son. Deep in their hearts lay enshrined the grave 
of that bright hope of their first year of wedded 
life, and into Juanita’s heart had crept a tender, 
motherly yearning which so far had not been filled. 
Yet the pangs of sorrow had been eased by time, 
by Jack’s deep love; and to Mary, Geraldine’s 
child, had fallen the heritage of the sweet caresses 
of the childless wife. Jack’s marriage to the for- 
eign maid had long been the theme for dinner 
talk in regiments to which were assigned his class- 
mates ; and in his own “none knew her but to love 
her,” all bowed at the shrine of her grace, her 
charm of voice. Though shy and reticent at first, 


44 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

she had gradually yielded to the allurements of 
society in the regimental circle, unfolded from her 
chrysalis state, and revealed all the native and 
pleasing personalities with which nature had so 
abundantly endowed her. Many a grizzled war- 
rior and young subaltern, many a matron and 
maid, had been thrilled by her voice when she 
burst forth in song. 

With the passing years of garrison life there had 
come the full maturity of matronly perfections, 
the soft tinge of wind and sun to peachy cheek, a 
perfect knowledge of American custom and speech ; 
and the footprints of the past were softly swept 
away by the ebb and flow of the tides on life’s 
sands. Three months before a new hope had 
dawned in the gentle breast of J uanita. The well- 
springs of maternity had overflowed her very being 
and a flood of new-found joy filled her heart. Even 
now her dreams presaged the advent of soft infant 
arms about her neck, of soft lips pressed to hers. 
A radiant light again irradiated those wondrous 
dark eyes and there was ever a song of praise in 
the recesses of her heart. She had feared that her 
God had frowned upon her marriage, had taken 
away her first-born to make her bow her head in 
bitter penance ; but now there was a bright star of 
hope shining above, a brilliant rainbow of promise 
spanning her sky. 

So with light heart, with magic fingers she 
touched the strings of the guitar, which Jack 
handed to her, as they sat together in the moon- 
light, and her glorious voice rang out on the night 
to charm and thrill : 


45 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

“Come, dearest , the daylight has gone 
And the stars are availing to thee , 

Come wander , my loved one , alone. 

If alone thou canst call it with me. 

“We will go where the wild flowers bloom. 
Amid the soft dews of the night. 

Where the orange dispels its perfume, 

And the rose spealcs of love and of light” 

She sang on and on until the mocking birds 
awoke in the trees by the stream and the whippoor- 
will called to its mate in the wildwood. Over at 
the barracks many an eye was dimmed and pipes 
were lain aside, cards were left scattered on the 
rnde tables, and charmed ears caught the soft, 
sweet notes borne to them on the wings of the 
night. 

“Begorra,” said Sergeant Murphy to a comrade 
at his side, “the Capting snared a sweet-singin’ bird 
over there in the land of the ‘Greasers/ If one of 
thim pesky Comanches, with heart harder than 
flint, could hear her sing he wouldn’t go on the 
war-path ag’in for twelve moons/’ 

“Tattoo” roll call was sounded by the orderly 
bugler over by the flagstaff and Preston and Heath- 
cote rose, and, bowing to their little home circle, 
wended their way across the small parade to re- 
ceive the reports of their veteran sergeants. The 
sentry at Ho. 1 called out the hour of nine, and it 
was repeated at the stables down by the sparkling 
stream, and back came the ever welcome sound of 
“All’s well.” A half-hour later there rang out on 


46 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the stilly night the sweetest of all military calls — 
“Taps.” 

Did you ever hear “Taps” sounded by an ex- 
cellent trumpeter on a clear, still night in post or 
tented field on the Texas borders, on the great 
plains of the West, or in the frozen lands of the 
Dakotas ? 

If not your ear has not been pierced by a thrill- 
ing call, whose notes rise and fall with impressive 
pathos and grandeur. ’Tis also a call sounded over 
the grave of every soldier buried while in military 
service ; and when heard by any veteran recalls the 
death and laying to rest of some loved comrade of 
days gone by. 

In your chronicler’s many years of cavalry serv- 
ice beneath the “Stars and Stripes,” this sadly 
sweet call has been heard thousands of times, yet 
never without waking the trooping shadows in 
memory’s halls. 

The little group upon the double portico of the 
officers’ quarters at Camp Verde heard the beau- 
tiful call ringing out upon the starry night; yet 
heard in its notes no prophetic warning of the 
coming death struggle between North and South, 
of the thousands of silent graves which would soon 
dot blood-stained fields. The paths of Preston and 
Jack were soon to diverge, their sabres soon to 
clash in opposing ranks. Comrades and brothers 
for years, united by the strongest ties of friend- 
ship and alliance ; they were soon to break asunder 
the bonds which time had welded and become lead- 
ers under separate flags against each other. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 47 


CHAPTER YI. 

Some four months later, in the warm afternoon 
sunshine of autumn, a column of dragoons rode 
homeward at ease in “twos” along a well beaten 
trail, following the windings of the Guadalupe. 

A rancher from far up the stream had, nine 
days before, galloped into the camp on the Verde 
and reported to Major Morris, the post command- 
er, that a band of Comanche braves from the far 
Western slopes was on the war-path and raiding 
the lone ranches in the hills. That grizzled old 
warrior had instantly ordered the bugler at the 
adjutant’s office to sound “officers’ call,” and Cap- 
tains Preston and Heathcote were directed to take 
thirty men each from their commands and pro- 
ceed immediately, with ten days’ rations, to the 
hills and follow the trail of the depredators. The 
rancher, provided with a fresh horse, was to act 
as scout and guide them over a short route along 
the cattle paths. Then there was hurrying and 
scurrying and the little post presented a bustling 
scene. Rations were drawn at the commissary, and, 
with camp equipage, were hastily packed on wiry 
little mules. There were hurried leavetakings, the 
bugles sang “boots and saddles” and an hour 
before sunset the cavalcade marched out of the 
garrison gate. 

When the evening zephyrs bore to them th* 


48 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

faint sound of the “retreat gun” they were five 
miles away, riding now at brisker gait northward. 
On the springy turf the steel-shod hoofs made but 
little noise, and the horses, fresh from herd on the 
grassy slope, champed their bits and flecked their 
riders with greenish flakes of foam, eager for the 
night ride. The sixty dragoons sat erect and 
square on their full-packed mounts, following grim- 
ly in column their gallant leaders, who rode in 
front, guided by the scout. Before them was a 
march of thirty miles over broad stretches of open 
divide, through timbered lands, then along the 
winding banks of the Guadalupe. 

By ten o’clock they had reached the upper waters 
of the Guadalupe, where the silvery stream ran 
over a shelving, rocky bed, coursing through cedar- 
bordered banks. In a small bosque they bivouacked 
for the night, near the river’s bank, tethering 
their horses to a ground picket line. In a deep 
ravine fires were built of buffalo chips, which make 
a hot fire with little blaze or smoke. The aroma 
of boiling coffee soon permeated the atmosphere, 
mingling its pungent odor with that of the cedar 
and late wild flowers. Hose-bags, half filled with 
grain, were now placed on the heads of the partly 
rested horses, and men and beasts took their late 
suppers together. Double guards were placed 
around the camp, to be relieved hourly through the 
night watches, and before midnight the hardy vet- 
erans slept, with their saddles for pillows, the 
starry sky above them for a canopy. When the 
first faint streaks of morning light should dawn 
in the east they would rise from their couches on 
the greensward, shake off the dews of the night, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 49 

the horses would he groomed and fed, the dragoons 
would partake of the soldier’s breakfast of black 
coffee, bread and fried bacon, then they would 
mount and away, seeking the trail of the savages. 

The morrow’s sun shed its rays upon the dra- 
goons, jogging along towards the northwest, fol- 
lowing a fresh trail made by about thirty ponies, 
the tracks showing to these seasoned plainsmen 
that only the dews of one night had fallen upon 
them. 

They struck the trail, crossing the route they 
had been marching, soon after breaking camp in 
the early dawn, and two hours after sunrise they 
saw in the distance the smoking ruins of the log 
cabins of a hardy pioneer, who had built his rude 
home on the bank of a small tributary of the Gua- 
dalupe. Leaving Jack’s command to move on 
with the pack mules, Preston formed a skirmish 
line of his dragoons and at a rapid gallop they 
swept within view of the scene of desolation. 

Their coming was hours too late. Within the 
smouldering walls of the log hut they found the 
charred remains of the frontiersman, his wife and 
child of three years. Far from the environments 
of civilization, his nearest neighbor ten miles away, 
he had braved the dangers of Indian raids and 
squatted on a fertile piece of ground by the creek, 
toiling single-handed to build a stout home of hewn 
logs to shelter his family. The little plot of tilled 
ground, the prairies and woods and stream offered 
to him abundance of sustenance, far from the 
haunts of men. An occasional pilgrimage to the 
settlements gave him needed raiment and con- 
diments in exchange for his skins and robes. 


50 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

and he had lived the hardy, adventurous life 
of the plainsman. But now he and wife and 
child were wrapped in their last long sleep, 
the victims of the blazing arrows of their 
fiendish foes. Doubtless these painted devils 
had surrounded the cabin at nightfall, meet- 
ing with what little resistance these pioneers could 
muster, and had ghoulishly danced about the flam- 
ing walls, which were the funeral pyres of hus- 
band, wife and child. Though such scenes were 
not unknown to these seasoned dragoons, yet there 
were misty eyes among them when they dismounted 
and raked out the burned, charred bodies from the 
embers. 

The scout had long known this “squatter” fam- 
ily, and, with clenched teeth and blazing eyes, he 
viewed their blackened skeletons and silently vowed 
summary vengeance. For each life would he have 
a double notch on his rifle in the months to come, 
even if he had to follow this bloodthirsty tribe to 
the setting sun. In the soft earth, near the banks 
of the stream, a shallow grave was scooped out and 
the charred remains were laid to rest beneath the 
shade of the trees, where the soft breezes could sing 
a requiem. Then onward the dragoons rode in hot 
haste, many hours late on the trail. 

News of the Indian raid had spread afar across 
the divides and up into the settlements, and ranch- 
ers had fled with their families to points where 
they could unite in hasty defense and pursuit. For 
several days the troops followed onward, joined 
by handy frontiersmen, finding evidences here and 
there of Indian cruelty and fiendishness ; but the 
Comanches had ridden fast and scattered far west- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 51 

ward, and on the fourth day the trail was lost 
amid the pathless prairies. 

Now, weary from long and vain pursuit, Cap- 
tains Preston and Heathcote, with their commands, 
were slowly wending their way homeward along 
the Guadalupe. One more camp, another day’s 
short march and they would reach the army roof 
which sheltered those so near and dear. 

Jack’s thoughts during the ten days’ scout were 
much perturbed by J uanita’s delicate health. Her 
wistful eyes had rested upon him so longingly, so 
sadly when duty called him suddenly from her 
side. Deeply engraven upon the tablets of his 
heart was the image of his loved wife, so grace- 
fully framed in the narrow front window of his 
quarters, encircled by running rose vines, as he 
mounted his horse and waved his gauntleted hand 
in adieu to join his troop. Those lustrous eyes 
were dimmed by tears which she strove vainly to re- 
press, and a vague, intangible shadow seemed to 
rest upon her brow. But to-morrow’s noonday sun 
would fall upon the home-returning dragoons; he 
could clasp her to his heart and watch over her 
with loving care. 

As the sun was sinking behind the wooded banks 
of the Guadalupe the command was halted and 
camp made for the night. A courier had been sent 
onward in the afternoon on a swift horse, bearing 
dispatches to the post commander relative to the 
result of the scout, informing him of the point of 
their last camping ground and of their return on 
the following day about noontide. They were now 
in bivouac by the b^nks of the flowing river, fifteen 


52 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

miles from the garrison. Only tents for the officers 
were pitched, for the hardy dragoons preferred 
heaven’s bright canopy to stuffy dog-tents. In the 
cool waters, shaded by cypress and trailing willow 
from the rays of the day’s sun, they had laved 
their weary limbs and were refreshed. Their 
horses had rolled on the grassy sward when un- 
saddled and were then turned loose in charge of 
the herd guard to crop the rich grass round the 
camp. There was a long autumnal twilight, in 
which appetites were appeased and preparations 
made for the night. Down among the dragoons 
there was laughter and song, the hardships of the 
past days of hard riding, the harrowing scenes for- 
gotten. 

The evening stars looked down upon them, there 
was a red glow above the eastern horizon presaging 
the coming moon. The waters of the Guadalupe 
murmured musically over its rocky bed, singing a 
sweet lullaby of the early evening. Guards had 
been posted and commenced their silent rounds. 
In front of a small “A” tent, overlooking the camp 
scene, reclining at full length on the green turf, 
Preston and Jack were discussing the problem of 
slavery — a problem whose solution for some years 
had engendered much vexation of spirit among in- 
telligent people. 

“Sambo,” the body servant of Preston, who had 
followed his kind young master through his whole 
career as a soldier beneath the flag of the Union, 
had served them their suppers a short while be- 
fore, and his tuneful voice was now heard back of 
their tent singing a plantation melody. Jack had 
just asked Preston his views of the probabilities of 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 53 

a future internecine strife and a call to arms to 
suppress state rights and how his conscience would 
influence him in the matter as a Federal officer. 
To his query Preston replied: “Jack, my ances- 
tors landed on Virginia’s shores when she was but 
an infant settlement, named for the ‘Virgin Queen’ 
of our parent land. They assisted in building up 
the colony, followed her fortunes of war in the 
struggle for independence, and before the ringing 
of the ‘Liberty Bell’ helped to form a state con- 
stitution. As the state existed before the Union, 
it is superior to it and has inalienable rights. Be- 
fore Virginia joined the Union we were slavehold- 
ers and the Federal government should have no 
voice in defining slavery and its limits. In the 
South we recognize it in every fiber of our legisla- 
tion, and in the political web this strand is closely 
woven. I do not believe that the followers of 
Garrison, nor the converts of Mrs. Stowe, can lead 
the nation into war. May God grant that such a 
calamity may be averted, Jack, for it would cause 
rivers of noble blood to stain our land of liberty. 
You and I have long served the old flag, my boy, 
and have seen it planted victoriously over foreign 
soil, and love it with heart and soul; but if the 
worst should come I would resign my commission 
and offer my services to my state, my birthland. 
Virginia first , Jack, the Union after. 

“Though we hold human beings in bondage, 
they are far happier in their present condition 
than their fathers were in Africa, in barbarous 
state. Of course there are some cruel masters, but 
even their slaves are almost as well off as the ma- 
jority of the factory employees at the North. The 


54 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

bulk of the opposition to the tenets of slavery is 
only maudlin sentiment.” 

A warm flush of enthusiasm mounted upon Pres- 
ton’s face as he spoke, and Jack quietly listened, 
regretting that he had broached the subject. 

Then there was long silence and deep thought be- 
tween these comrades leal and true. Jack broke 
the silence at last, observing: “Well, old boy, we 
are treading serious paths to-night, and are foolish- 
ly wandering into labyrinthic mazes. Let’s stretch 
our limbs and take a walk around the camp, while 
we enjoy our pipes. It is a lovely night and I 
guess by this time the girls at Camp Verde know 
that we will join them for dinner to-morrow. The 
Major will go over and notify them himself, I 
know, as soon as he gets our dispatches.” 

So, with pipes lit, they stroll down to the picket 
line and seek out their chargers, patting them 
gently on their smooth necks. To-morrow night 
they shall sleep in bedded stall and enjoy a wel- 
come rest. They have travelled far in the nine- 
days’ scout, but are still ready to bear their mas- 
ters gallantly if need be. 

The hour is growing late, the camp fires have 
burned low, the waning moon has risen above the 
eastern plains and most of the troopers have lain 
themselves down to sleep. Skirting around the 
slumberers these captains returned to their tents, 
bade each other “good night and pleasant dreams” 
and turned in for the night. Weariness steals upon 
them and Morpheus wraps his enfolding arms 
about the twain, so long united by the bonds of 
deep affection and utmost trust. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 55 


CHAPTEE VII. 

“ 'Tis midnight's holy hour , and silence now is 
brooding , 

Like a gentle spirit, o'er the still and pulseless 
world." 

The sentries have just been relieved by the 
corporal of the guard and commenced their new 
rounds. A lone prairie wolf, drawn perhaps by 
the odors of the camp, trots across a patch of moon- 
light on the opposite bank of the stream, and, 
seating himself on a knoll utters a series of pro- 
longed howls, oft and long repeated. 

“Drat the varmint,” mutters the sleepy corporal, 
“that is a sure sign of death, and I wish it was his 
own funeral. I’d like to be the chief mourner and 
help to cover him with six feet of Texas soil.” 

Afar in the distance came the sounds of steel- 
shod hoofs on the beaten roadway. The wolf trots 
sullenly away into the shadows. The sentry at 
the outer post halts on his beat and listens to the 
well-known sound of shod dragoon horse, for the 
frontiersman trusts to the hard hoof of his pony 
to bear him over the prairies. Now in the moonlit 
roadway, a hundred yards away, galloping out of 
the long shadows cast by the moss-covered oaks, 
comes the solitary horseman, his buff chevrons 
and stripes showing full in the moon’s rays. He 


56 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

has ridden hard and fast through the night and 
deep flakes of foam cover his panting steed. The 
sentry’s cry rings ont on the still air: "Halt! 
Who comes there?” A mellow voice sends quick 
reply: "Sergeant Murphy, with a missage fur 
Captain Heathcote.” The sentry recognizes the 
quartermaster-sergeant of his own company, and, 
with rapid sign beckons him to his captain’s tent, 
in his own heart foreboding great evil. 

Jack’s sleep had been broken, troubled by hid- 
eous dreams, and his ear had caught the sentry’s 
challenge, vaguely heard the sergeant’s reply. But 
in an instant he was wide awake and hastily arose 
from his bunk, peering out of his tent with startled 
eyes. Before the courier could dismount from his 
reeking horse, J ack called out : "What is the mat- 
ter, sergeant?” There were tears in his voice, 
deep apprehension tugging at his heart strings. 

"Your wife has tuk very sick, sor, and the major 
ordered me to fetch you these letters, sir, with his 
compliments.” 

The whole camp was now roused from deep 
slumber, and Preston, not waiting to dress, had 
hastened across to Jack’s tent to find out what 
news the courier had brought from the post on the 
Verde. Candles were lighted, the packet was 
quickly unwrapped and the brief notes from the 
major and Geraldine to Jack and Preston were 
read with pain and grief. Sergeant Murphy had 
dismounted, delivered his packet and led his pant- 
ing steed down to the picket line, where he now 
had to answer the questions of the anxious dra- 
goons. Preston called loudly for the corporal of 
the guard, who hurried and saluted respectfully. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 57 

“Corporal,” he directed, “have the bugler saddle 
Captain Heathcote’s horse and his own instantly 
and report here as soon as possible. Have some 
of the men assist him. Be quick, now, it is a case 
of life and death.” 

Again saluting, the corporal faced about and 
ran to obey his orders. There was sad news. J ack’s 
loved wife had become violently ill during the 
afternoon and the post surgeon had been sum- 
moned to her side. Her sufferings were so acute, 
so intense, that both Geraldine and the doctor were 
almost on the verge of despair when. the messenger 
arrived late in the evening bearing the dispatches 
notifying them of their last camp and return on 
the morrow. Juanita had lapsed into unconscious- 
ness, was burning with fever and in her delirium 
was calling out piteously : “Jack! Jack! Luz de 
mi alma, adios, adios, vaya usted con Dios.” 

Jack had thrown on his uniform, donned boots 
and spurs, buckled about his waist his sabre and 
pistol belt, and now, wringing Preston’s hand in 
farewell, he swings into his saddle and gallops away 
in the moonlight, followed by his orderly on his 
dappled gray. 

At the ford, four miles below, he draws rein, 
letting Don, his red-roan charger, take a few swal- 
lows of water from the stream as he crosses, and 
on the southern bank, when he makes the rise, he 
dismounts and tightens his saddle girth, lets his 
horse blow for a moment, then mounts and is away 
at a swinging pace that the orderly can hardly 
follow. Juanita, his heart’s idol, lying at death’s 
door calling piteously for him and he is miles away. 
Beneath those bright steel-shod hoofs the dews of 


58 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the night are scattered from the path and mile on 
mile is covered fast. But Don is breathing hard, 
his flanks are reeking with foam, his limbs seem 
trembling under the terrific strain. Jack has long 
ago shouted back to his orderly to slacken his speed 
and come in at his ease, while he gallops on, never 
pausing in his flight across the plain. With wide- 
ly distended nostrils, but with unfaltering stride, 
the gallant horse plunges onward, encouraged by 
gentle word and caress. Will he be too late ? Was 
the dismal howl of the prairie wolf a dire omen of 
death? Can a just God tear from him this cling- 
ing vine, which for so long has entwined about 
him its soft, sweet tendrils ? 

Don feels the sharp rowels of his master’s spurs, 
his eyes dilate and flash fire, and with an herculean 
effort he rallies his spent forces, shakes his arched 
neck, speeds onward through the night. The cloud 
which hovered over the moon rolls by and the 
moonbeams now seem filled with greater brilliancy. 
Yonder at the foot of the long slope appears the 
sparkling stream, the garrison home with its dimly 
twinkling lights. There lies Juanita suffering the 
throes of maternity, or perhaps dead. The sentry 
recognizes in the bright moonlight the quivering, 
laboring roan, bearing his master homeward, and 
throws wide the gate. There is no use for chal- 
lenge, and Jack gallops to the guard house and 
dismounts, calling out to the guard to look well 
to his horse, for he is failing in wind and stagger- 
ing from the long burst of speed. Jack’s brain is 
on fire, his limbs almost refuse to obey his will 
when he swings clear of his stirrups. The watch- 
ers over at his quarters have heard the ringing 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 59 

hoofbeats of the lone horseman as he gallops into 
the post, and Geraldine hastily throws her hus- 
band’s military cape about her shoulders and runs 
across the parade to meet her brother. In her 
face Jack can read by the moon-rays signs of dis- 
tress as he folds her in his arms and kisses her. 
With quivering voice he asks for news of Juanita. 

A babe — a boy — has been born to them, and 
how, as they cross the small patch of grassy parade 
an infant wail is borne to his ears, which recalls 
the little whited sepulchre of his first-born, far 
away on the banks of the rolling Hudson. Juanita 
is lying on her couch faint, unconscious, hovering 
between earth and the gates of death. The doc- 
tor has hopes that she will rally under the influence 
of light stimulants and regain consciousness in a 
few hours. Assisted by Mrs. Morris, the gentle, 
lovable wife of the old post commander, the sur- 
geon watches patiently, hopefully by her bedside, 
noting often her temperature and respiration. 
For an hour there has been but little variation in 
either and Jack is forbidden to enter his wife’s 
chamber lest his coming should arouse her too sud- 
denly from the torpor into which she has fallen 
and the excitement of the awakening snuff out the 
few faint sparks which yet linger upon the altar 
of her pure life. 

Jack looks up toward the starry skies appealing- 
ly, beseechingly, reverently; and a silent prayer 
goes up from his troubled heart to the throne of 
his God, asking that his sweet wife may be spared 
to him ; that this fairest flower in his garden of ex- 
istence may be permitted to bloom on to perfume 
all the days of his future. 


60 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Geraldine comes now and sits beside him, seek- 
ing to ponr balm upon his heart strings. She 
bids him bear up bravely and be not cast down, 
for the morning sun peeping over the eastern slopes 
may bring with it good news from the sick room. 
Gently she lifts him up and guides him to the 
silk-lined cradle where now sleeps his infant son 
and heir. His misty eyes rest lovingly upon his 
child, born him by the wife of his bosom. He 
grasps the black hand of the old slave-nurse and 
wrings it in silence, thereby showing his trust in 
her and gratitude for her faithful service. Then 
he returned to his seat on the portico and rested 
his tired head between his palms — waiting, hoping, 
trusting. 

Ho sentry’s call was passed on this sad night 
around the little post, for the “officer of the day” 
had so instructed the guard, fearing that the out- 
cries might disturb the sufferer. Instead the posts 
were hourly visited by the sergeant to assure 
prompt execution of all orders. The night wore 
on and there were faint streaks of Aurora’s dawn 
pencilled with rosy fingers in the east; yet there 
was no change in Juanita. Lying passively, with 
slight heart beat and fainter breathing, she seemed 
a fair, fragile night flower that would wither up 
and close its petals with the first ray of the rising 
sun. To the silent watchers by her couch the 
passing moments seemed as hours; to Jack -they 
were years, and the lines upon his face deepened 
and into his eyes came a haggard, forlorn, hope- 
less light. The sun rose above the hills, clothed 
in their dress of autumnal hues. Ho bugle notes 
were sounded for reveille and morning stables, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 61 

The men of the two troops who were left behind 
for garrison duty were quietly roused from their 
slumbers and noiselessly fell in for roll-call. The 
flag was hoisted on the tall flagstaff and idly 
flapped in the morning breeze. A hush was upon 
the garrison, for all felt that a fair young life was 
about to be snuffed out, a gentle spirit almost 
poising its wings ready to soar away to realms 
Elysian. “None knew her but to love her” in all 
the regiment, whether of high or low degree. Her 
voice had soothed the pangs of pain, her hand 
brought fruit and flowers and ofttimes smoothed a 
pillow in the hospital wards where lay the sick 
or wounded. No bronzed dragoon in the two 
companies could ever forget an evening, two years 
gone by, when Private Goodson lay in the hospital 
sick and dying from his wounds. The death damp 
was gathering upon his brow, his speech was thick 
and husky. His memory had borne him back to 
the scenes of his childhood in the Mohawk Val- 
ley, when he sat at a fond mother’s knee and lis- 
tened to her as she sang “Rock of Ages.” He was 
a good boy then, reared by a Christian mother; 
but the Lord had taken her away, a small white 
stone had been placed to mark her resting place in 
the country church yard, and her boy had wan- 
dered away into forbidden paths, become a hard- 
ened sinner ; and at last had enlisted in the army, 
becoming a wild, dare-devil of a dragoon, fearless 
of danger, yet a roisterer at times and through 
drink unruly. 

Jack and Juanita had visited his bedside in the 
evening to see if there was aught they could do to 
alleviate his sufferings or any penned messages 


62 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

they could send to his people, of whom he had 
never spoken to his comrades. His eyes filled with 
burning tears when his captain had addressed him 
kindly and encouraged him to tell of his family, 
with whom he had not communicated for many 
years. Now in faltering, labored tones he related 
the story of his past and faintly said that if once 
again he could hear some sweet voice singing to 
him “Bock of Ages,” as his mother had sung it 
in “auld lang syne,” he could die content. 

Juanita, seated by the window near his pillow, 
heard his request, and, with brimming eyes and 
tearful voice she sang the hymn as few, before or 
since, have heard it sung. Sweetly, tremulously 
her notes filled the walls of the hospital, and, 
gaining volume with each added line were wafted 
outward on the wings of the night, falling on the 
ears of the patients in the wards like sweet strains 
from some angelic voice on high. As she sang the 
dying man’s face was lighted up with a new light, 
a smile of happiness plaj^ed about his bearded lips, 
his sufferings were forgotten in his last moments 
of ecstasy ; and as the last note of the sacred hymn 
died away his spirit was freed from its bondage 
in its tenement of clay. ’Twas Juanita’s trem- 
bling fingers which closed his eyelids ere Jack bore 
her away from this never-to-be-forgotten scene, 
her lips which uttered a silent prayer to her God 
for his absolution from past sins. 

Now she, too, hovered between life and death 
as the sun rose over the hilltops. From his vigil 
of the livelong night the doctor came forth now 
and encountered Jack, where he sat in a camp 
chair on the porch, oblivious to all things save the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 63 

thought of J uanita and her peril. Still there was 
no change for better or worse, the medical man 
whispered to him, and she might linger thus for 
hours, buoyed up by gentle stimulants, the heart 
thus forced to perform its functions while she lay 
all unconscious of her surroundings. 

No ! He must not go in as yet, for there must 
be no sudden excitement. Her life was hanging 
as if by a single thread, which could easily be 
snapped in twain; but there was room for hope, 
and he must bear up with soldierly fortitude. He 
must come across with him and drink a cup of 
strong coffee and partake of some edibles to sus- 
tain his strength. The ladies could relieve each 
other at the bedside during the day and others 
would come over to assist them in the sick room. 
The doctor himself, luckily, had but few calls of 
importance at the hospital and the steward was 
fully able to attend to any cases on the “sick re- 
ports.” 


64 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

At mid-day the infant wail seemed to rouse the 
sleeping mother from her coma, her dark eyes 
opened softly, wonderingly, and dwelt upon the 
faces of Geraldine and the doctor, bending over 
her conch. 

A strong stimulant was instantly given and 
her parted lips asked for Jack. In a moment he 
was beside her, summoned by Geraldine's beckon- 
ing, and, kneeling by her couch, he clasped her 
trembling hand in his own and lovingly pressed 
his lips to hers. Into his eyes now came a great 
light of hope and thankfulness. The doctor stepped 
softly to the outer room and bade Aunt Caroline 
enter, bearing in her arms the infant boy, so that 
the mother’s eyes might rest for the first time upon 
her child. Her pulse must be quickened, her heart 
made to perform its functions with greater power ; 
and the sight of husband and new-born child might 
bring about the needed change, thought this army 
surgeon. Aunt Caroline tenderly bore this infant 
mite in her strong arms to the bedside of the 
mother and drew back the silken hood from its 
tiny face, so that in the dim light of the sick cham- 
ber she might gaze upon her son, born a fortnight 
before his time, yet healthy and perfect. Though 
faint and listless, her strength not much greater 
than that of her child, she looked upon husband 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 65 

and offspring with a great love light radiating 
from her shining orbs. Weeks might elapse ere 
she should be free from danger, and after holding a 
conclave with Preston and his wife, Geraldine, and 
consulting with the kind old post commander, a 
mounted dragoon was sent by the doctor to San 
Antonio bearing a dispatch to the colonel of the 
regiment asking for medical aid and a trained 
female nurse. 

There was a physician in that primitive village 
in those days — Dr. Petterson by name — who had 
gained great fame in European cities in the prac- 
tice of his profession ; but, soured by domestic dif- 
ficulties, had emigrated to the “Lone Star Kepub- 
lic” in 1845 and become a healer in the wilderness. 
His wonderful cures, his brilliant attainments, 
his kindness of heart had made him known far 
and wide in this Western land, and now the colonel 
was besought to send him to Camp Verde for a 
few days, together with a nurse of his own choosing. 
A special letter was enclosed to this famous healer, 
giving a history of the case and beseeching him to 
come without delay if possible. This big-hearted 
army surgeon was far more capable as a surgeon 
than as a physician and felt that the hand of a 
master healer was needed to restore Juanita to 
health and strength. 

There were relay stations in those days about 
twenty miles apart, kept up by the government, 
where fresh horses and mules were stalled; and 
the courier departed on his swift journey across 
the prairies, knowing where to procure a new 
mount. In a little more than six hours the dis- 
tance was accomplished, the dispatches in the 


66 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

hands of Colonel Blake. The vesper bells at the 
Missions had only two hours before rung out their 
silvery chimes at close of that autumn day, when 
the courier rode across the sparkling waters of the 
San Pedro and galloped along the “Calle de 
Flores,” into the “Military Plaza,” where the 
twinkling lights revealed the open air restaurants 
with tables spread beneath the starry skies, the 
glowing fires giving forth the mingled odors of 
cafe , chocolate , tomales , cabreta, chili-con-carne 
and frijoles. 

Later, when his duty had been performed, the 
dragoon courier could indulge his appetite in Mex- 
can dishes, and spend a few hours rambling 
through the quaint old Spanish town, even drop- 
ping some of the silver (which Captain Preston had 
thrust upon him) in the monte games or in the 
purchase of mescal or mustang wine displayed 
temptingly in the windows of the cantinas. 

Colonel Blake, as soon as he had perused the 
message, ordered his horse, and, followed by his 
orderly, threaded his way along the narrow streets 
to the humble office of Doctor Petterson, which 
was densely shaded by umbrella china, and close 
to the river’s brim. Colonel Blake was much de- 
voted to Captain Heathcote and his wife and they 
had often been his guests when stationed at head- 
quarters. Throwing the reins to his orderly he 
rapped for admittance and was ushered in by a 
Mexican servant. Doctor Petterson rose to receive 
him with the courtesy due his rank and placed for 
him an easy chair; then, opening the door of an 
inner room, he bowed into it with courtly grace 
a Sister of Charity who had been consulting him 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 67 

relative to some of her patients whom the doctor 
attended. 

“Now, colonel,” he said, “I am at your service,” 
while his fine, piercing eyes rested upon the bronzed 
features, the giant form of the soldierly man who 
sat before him. 

The colonel stated the case plainly and in a 
few words, expressing the hope that'the doctor 
could leave his practice at home for a few days 
and render all the aid and skill in his power to 
the wife of Captain Heathcote at Camp Verde. 
An ambulance, with relays of mules, would be 
furnished him and the expense of attendance was 
of little moment. The letter from the army sur- 
geon was then delivered and perused, and for a 
few moments Dr. Petterson sat in deep thought. 

“I can leave here at sunrise, colonel, if you will 
make the necessary arrangements for transporta- 
tion, and I know of a trained and skillful nurse, 
who, possibly, can be induced to accompany me. 
If so, her tender nursing and experienced care will 
avail more than any skill I possess. I speak of 
Sister Francesca, who is now in the inner room, a 
woman of rare education and experience and pos- 
sessed of a thousand virtues as a nurse. She has 
full knowledge of the English tongue. I will call 
her and you can make a personal appeal for her 
service.” 

Suiting the action to the word, the doctor opened 
the door and requested the Sister's presence. Upon 
her entry Colonel Blake arose and bowed low to 
this dark-robed Sister and saw revealed in the 
candle light her kind face, lit up with lustrous 
eyes, beaming with intelligence and innate refine- 


68 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

ment, a woman somewhat advanced in years, who 
had felt sorrow’s blight, witnessed pain and mis- 
fortune in the paths of others and watched by many 
a pillow where sickness and death were rife. She 
had known many a day of penance and had ex- 
piated many a fancied fault of word or deed on the 
battlefields of France and Italy, where war had 
raged in the last few years. She was a native of 
Mexico, but ten years before had gone to Europe 
and nursed the soldiers of France, as well as those 
of Lombardy. A year before she had journeyed 
westward toward the setting sun and at San An- 
tonio had sought the shelter of the walls of her 
order, seeking to minister to sick and aged, bring- 
ing with her bright rays of sunshine. On his 
rounds Dr. Petterson had often found Sister Fran- 
cesca, as she was known to the world, ministering 
to those who needed her care, and had noted her 
intelligence, her gentleness and her patience. 

Colonel Blake briefly told her the facts of the 
case. 

Dr. Petterson requested the Sister to accompany 
him on the morrow, and she yielded, promising to 
be ready at sunrise. The colonel then took his 
leave, remounted his horse and rode back to his 
quarters, issuing orders to the quartermaster to 
provide the ambulance and teams for the journey, 
the driver to report to Dr. Petterson at sunup, 
fully equipped. 

******* 

When the ambulance reached the gates of Camp 
Verde and rolled onward to the guard-house the 
driver stopped to inquire for the quarters of Cap- 
tain Heathcote. ’Twas then that a startled look 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 69 

came into the eyes of the quiet Sister, a faint color 
suffused her cheeks. Her limbs trembled with 
emotion and her heart gave one great bound of an- 
ticipation. For many long years she had not 
heard that name. Could her ears deceive her? 
Could it be Juanita’s husband? While these 
thoughts were flitting through her mind she was 
borne onward to the “officers’ row” and there on 
the portico of the double quarters stood Jack with 
Preston and Geraldine, ready to extend the hand 
of welcome to both doctor and nurse. 

Though years had passed and these boys had 
grown in stature, become bronzed and heavily 
bearded, a glance sufficed to tell this Sister that 
they were the same whom she had known “lang 
syne.” Would they recognize her after this lapse 
of time? She would await results. The doctor 
alighted and tendered his hand to assist her from 
the coach. Then he was warmly welcomed by 
both officers and presented to Geraldine and in 
turn introduced Sister Francesca, who came to as- 
sist him as nurse. Jack and Preston each gazed 
upon her curiously, almost divining who she was, 
as she stood with partly averted face before them. 
Geraldine bore her away so that she could remove 
the stains of travel, and as she glided forward 
each turned again to watch her departing figure, 
drawn, they knew not why, by some subtle force to 
contemplate the quiet Sister. The doctor was duly 
installed in Jack’s household and as soon as he 
could change his dusty travelling garb he asked 
to see his patient, while luncheon was being pre- 
pared for his refreshment. 

On her couch she was lying, pale as marble, heu 


70 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

fair face wreathed in a halo of midnight hair, her 
dark eyes shining brilliantly 'neath her delicately- 
arched brows. As the doctor gazed down upon her 
with kindly sympathetic eyes he recalled faces- seen 
years before in Seville and in Naples; and for a 
moment he wondered whether Captain Heathcote 
had found his bride amid the plains of Andalusia 
or. 'neath the sunny skies of Italy. She was of 
such beauteous mould and now so faint and frag- 
ile that he stood between two moods temporarily — 
the one of admiration for the perfectly chiselled, 
Madonna-like features, the other of professional 
skill, which he must exercise to bring back to those 
colorless cheeks the glow of health. With the 
gentleness and tenderness of examination and min- 
istration for which he was so famed, Dr. Petterson 
made his diagnosis, and, mixing a potent draught 
from his medicine case, bade his patient drink it, 
as he lifted her head softly from the pillow. 

When the Sister joined him in the little parlor 
of the Heathcote army home his quick eye per- 
ceived that she was deeply perturbed, that her 
hands were nervously twitching, a tempest of un- 
usual emotion raging in her heart. Hurriedly, 
tremulously she questioned him as to his patient's 
bodily welfare, while the light and shadow of hope 
and fear flitted over her now expressive face. The 
quiet, reserved, emotionless Sister was now trans- 
formed into the curious woman, and the doctor 
was deeply astonished. What secret lay locked in 
that gentle breast? What tragedy of the past had 
been brought to light in this little Western garri- 
son to so disturb the serenity of that beatific face ? 

When he had quieted her fears as to Juanita's 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 71 

condition the Sister asked him if a sudden meeting 
of an old-time friend, a quick arousal of buried 
emotions, an unexpected revival of banished scenes 
would tend to the injury of his patient. Dr. Pet- 
terson replied that Twere better to explain to him 
in full the nature of her queries. Then she told 
him all the old, sweet story of Juanita, the sever- 
ance of holy ties to wed the young American of- 
ficer, her own fault as Mother Superior in assign- 
ing one so young to the duties of nurse, hew she 
had expiated her fault on the battlefields of France 
and Italy, and, after an absence of ten years, she 
had returned only by chance, or the will of God, 
to stand at last beneath the roof which now shel- 
tered Juanita, of whom in all those years she had 
never heard. 

Thus were they to be reunited. Would the ex- 
citement of their meeting be deleterious or would 
it be beneficial in rousing his patient from her 
listless state ? 

Dr. Petterson’s ears had heard many a tale of 
romance, of joys and sorrows in his long pilgrim- 
age through life, but none which touched him 
more deeply than this just revealed by the Sister 
before him. 

So Juanita was a daughter of Mexico, a fair 
tropical flower plucked from the parent stem in 
“the land of the Montezumas” — a captive of war. 
The potion he had administered would cause a 
deep, untroubled sleep of several hours, from which 
she would awake refreshed, finding increased vigor 
in flow of blood and strength. About the twilight 
hour her brilliant eyes should open and rest upon 
the Sister, from whom she had parted long, long 


72 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

ago; who had come now to nurse her back to life, 
to lift her up from “the valley of the shadow.” 

“Sister,” said the doctor, “come with me for a 
few moments to the sick room and feast your eyes 
upon the face of her from whom you have been so 
long separated. She is now sleeping, with her boy 
by her side, and I know your heart yearns to see 
her once again. She is not entirely free from 
peril, for her convulsions after childbirth made 
her weak unto death ; but we can defy the ravages 
of illness and woo her back to health in the days 
to come.” 

The curtains and draperies had been drawn so as 
to shut out the light of the afternoon sun ; but Sis- 
ter Francesca stole to the bedside and stood trans- 
fixed with ecstasy as she gazed, with fast beating 
heart and heaving bosom, upon the well loved face 
and form of Juanita. Years had fled since they 
had stood in the gardens of the “Hospicio” and 
bidden each other a long farewell — years since she 
had placed on Juanita’s hand the curiously 
wrought band of gold, which she now saw en- 
circling the self-same slender finger as it lay upon 
the white coverlet. God had been good, reuniting 
them amid strange scenes, and she felt at last as 
she looked upon Juanita and her child that all 
had been condoned, their faults expiated. 

Hs * * * * * * 

Luncheon had been served in the small, cool 
dining room of Preston’s quarters and Geraldine 
had made her guests perfectly at ease. ’Twas 
she who had given Sister Francesca, unwittingly, 
the information relative to the identity of Cap- 
tain Heathcote’s wife, when she had received her 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 73 

on arrival and taken her in to remove travel stains. 
Geraldine, having observed that the Sister was of 
Juanita’s race, had told her that her brother had 
found his wife in the City of Mexico during the 
Mexican war and that she could converse with her 
in her own tongue. Thereupon Sister Francesca 
could no longer contain her pent-up emotions and 
confessed to Geraldine that she had been the 
Mother Superior of the “Santa Maria” and had 
detailed Juanita to nurse Jack in his “cuartel” 
when he fell ill of his wounds and fever. While the 
doctor was making his first visit upon Juanita 
Preston and Jack had been called in to meet and 
renew their acquaintance with Sister Francesca 
and discourse upon the strangeness of Fate’s de- 
crees. 

’Twas a warm welcome she found in this camp 
on the Verde, and her heart seemed brimming over 
with feelings which renewed her youth, sweeping 
away all traces for a time of the pain and heart- 
aches that had been her heritage. To Geraldine 
and her daughter Mary she instantly opened the 
portals of her heart and received them there with a 
mother’s devotion. For had not Preston told her 
in that far away Mexican City, years before, how 
tenderly Geraldine had folded Juanita in loving 
arms and given her a sister’s love and fond wel- 
come. 

Through the long hours of the afternoon she and 
Geraldine sat near Juanita’s couch and watched 
for the awakening of the fair slumberer. Autumn 
breezes, soft and scented with the odors of wood 
and grassy slope, came stealing through the 
screened windows. “Stable” and “water” calls had 


74 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

been sounded and the troopers had been marched 
to the corrals to groom and care for their horses. 
Later “retreat” was proclaimed by the bnglers and 
the stalwart dragoons had answered the roll-call 
nnder arms, the flag was lowered and furled and 
the autumn sun had sunk to rest beyond the west- 
ern divides. Upon the portico Jack’s booted foot- 
fall fell and there was a slight tremor in Juanita’s 
hand resting upon the snowy coverlet. 

Aunt Caroline had some time before taken the 
child into the outer room lest its wail disturb the 
sleeping mother. Now Juanita turned her head 
upon the pillow and Geradine stepped softly out 
of view. The eyelids which concealed those lus- 
trous dark orbs, opened slowly and rested upon 
the dark-robed figure, the transfigured face, the 
glowing eyes of Sister Francesca bending over her. 

“Madre, mia,” said Juanita dreamily* wonder- 
ingly, “am I dreaming? Is this a vision of the 
night? Am I back within the sacred walls of the 
‘Santa Maria’ or has God sent you to me with a 
message from heaven that my sin is pardoned? 
Speak, Mother ! Or have you come from the 
courts above to bear my child away, my baby boy ?” 

With streaming eyes, with fast beating heart, 
with trembling voice Sister Francesca bent over 
her, and, pressing kisses upon lip and brow reas- 
sured her and answered : 

“Nay, nay, my child, you are just waking from 
sound sleep. ’Tis I, in the flesh, come from out 
the darkness of a long night, to nurse you back to 
health, to assist in restoring you to your husband 
and child in the full strength of your womanhood. 
Ah ! ’Nit a, God has heard and answered my prayer. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 75 

sent me from the other side of the ocean to be re- 
united with yon, my daughter, heart to heart, soul 
to soul. I feel that God is now smiling upon our 
life pathways ; that we shall in future stand forth 
in the bright light of his love and forgiveness.” 

Geraldine stepped out of the shadows then and 
stood by the side of Sister Francesca and from 
dreamland Juanita came back to a full realization 
of her surroundings. The potent elixir which the 
doctor had administered, the coming of Sister 
Francesca, the flood of memories which swept over 
her brought new strength to her waning vital 
forces. She would live to enjoy God’s goodness ; to 
cast round her child a network of love, hope, de- 
votion; to brighten the existence of the husband 
who loved her and to carry sunshine in her soft 
palm to scatter amid the lone and despairing. 


76 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER IX. 

In the spring of 1859 the long anticipated order 
came from the War Department to Colonel Blake, 
of the — th Dragoons, to change station from his 
regimental headquarters at San Antonio to Jeffer- 
son Barracks, near St. Louis. 

A battalion of four companies was to be selected 
by him for duty at headquarters, and the remainder 
of the regiment was to be assigned to scattered gar- 
risons in the West. For more than ten years these 
dragoons had seen service on the plains of Texas 
and the moving order was welcomed far and near. 
Companies “F” and “Qt” commanded respectively 
by Captains Preston and Heathcote, having long 
served in isolated stations, were chosen as part of 
the headquarter’s battalion by their colonel. After 
years of absence the regiment returned to the old 
garrison at St. Louis, from which they had de- 
parted at the call to arms to bear their standard 
victoriously from Vera Cruz to the City of Mex- 
ico, invading “the land of the Montezumas” as 
conquerors. 

Fifteen times had the flowers of spring bloomed 
in rich profusion in vale and woodland since the 
summer of graduation, when these now bronzed 
campaigners, Henry Preston and Jack Heathcote, 
received their first commissions as subalterns. The 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 77 

time was fast approaching when they were to be 
disunited, for in the distance were the deep rum- 
blings of civil strife, borne faintly but surely to 
unwilling ears. War was soon to be waged be- 
tween North and South, and these comrades and 
brothers were destined in the near future to lead 
opposing hosts of deeply embittered factions. The 
red hand of Mars was even now preparing to paint 
the sky with the lurid colors of bloodshed. 
******* 

During the summer news came to Captain Pres- 
ton of the rapidly failing health of his father, 
and he asked for leave that he might return to 
the old plantation home — Sunnyside — and strive 
to cheer the declining days of his beloved parent. 
No shadow of grief had heretofore rested upon 
the home of his youth, but now on his return he 
found that illness had made great inroads upon 
the usually strong frame and that death’s effacing 
finger might at any time close the weary eyes 
which gazed lovingly upon him. Between father 
and son there had ever been the closest, strongest 
ties of affection. The father had idolized his only 
child. His had been a noble life and he was a 
perfect type of the courtly old Virginia gentle- 
man. A fond husband, a loving father, an indul- 
gent master, a kindly neighbor, he was deeply be- 
loved by all. Upon his head rested the snowy 
crown of nearly threescore years and ten; and 
now his heart was alone perturbed at the thought 
that his only son must give up his army career, to 
which he was much attached, and assume the reins 
of heritage, “Sunnyside.” 

For many generations the Prestons had been 


78 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

born and reared on this ancestral spot, and his 
son must soon take unto himself his birthright. 

In the early days of September, when soft breezes 
were wafted through the half screened windows, 
laden with the odors of field and woodland, his 
spirit was borne away from its earthly tenement. 
He had drawn “the draperies of his couch about 
him and laid him down to pleasant dreams.” 
Around him were gathered his tearful loved ones, 
watching the last faint spark expire on the altar 
of a well spent life. As the sun was sinking behind 
the amphitheatre of wooded hills his “summons 
came to join the innumerable caravan that moves 
to the pale realms of shade, where each shall 
take his chamber in the silent halls of death.” 
The silver chords were loosed, the golden urn of 
life was broken. Tears, unrepressed, glistened on 
the eyelids of the silent watchers and hearts were 
rent with anguish. Down in the slave quarters 
there was sobbing and low moaning among the 
elders, and even the small children ceased their 
play to stare in open-eyed wonder up toward the 
chamber of death, being awed into silence by the 
signs of grief on every side. The Lord had given 
and the Lord had taken away. The twilight deep- 
ened, the birds winged their way to their nightly 
shelter, and shadows of darkness fell upon the 
household where sorrow reigned 

The obsequies over, friends departed, the echoes 
of tolling bells silenced, the hour came for thought 
of futurity. Captain Preston wandered away 
down the river amid the haunts of his childhood, 
where he might in solitude formulate his plans. 
The path of duty lay clear before him, and, re- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 79 

gardless of his desires, he must follow it in coming 
days. For many years he had followed the banner 
of the Stars and Stripes, was a soldier born and 
educated to the calling; but now he must resign 
from the service, bid farewell to his troop of loyal 
dragoons, to regimental associations, to clash of 
sabre and sound of arms and assume the manage- 
ment of his large estate. So by that day’s post he 
forwarded a letter to the adjutant-general at Wash- 
ington tendering his resignation and setting forth 
his long service and devotion to duty, the death of 
his father, the decrepitude of his mother and the 
urgency of the case. 

Shortly afterward he was notified of its accept- 
ance and the regret which the Department experi- 
enced in losing the valued services of such a gal- 
lant officer. With the first snow of winter came 
his second bereavement. His mother could not 
bear up under the strain and quietly, peacefully 
passed away and was laid to rest by the side of 
her husband. 

“Sunnyside” was now a misnomer for the old 
ancestral home, for the lights had fled and been 
relieved by trooping shadows. So Preston wound 
up his affairs, and,, leaving his excellent overseer 
in charge, he sped away with Geraldine and Mary 
to visit “Highland View” on the Hudson. There 
they would spend the December days and at Christ- 
mastide would be joined by Jack and Juanita, 
with her dark-eyed baby boy, whom the grand- 
parents had not as yet looked upon. Juanita had 
recovered her full strength under the skillful treat- 
ment of Dr. Petterson, and through the careful 
nursing of Sister Francesca, who was fain to tear 


80 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

herself from her patient’s side to return to her 
life’s mission. When, after six weeks of attend- 
ance upon Juanita, the Sister of Mercy had bidden 
her farewell and gone back to the sheltering walls 
of her convent at San Antonio, she bore with her 
a light heart and upon her lips were songs of praise 
and thanksgiving. 

* * * * * * * 

The years 1859 and 1860 were marked by 
spirited political contests, by inflamed sentiment 
at the North against the extension of slavery, by 
heated debates between the leaders in the halls of 
Congress, by ominous threats of disunion in the 
South. 

When the great political struggle between the 
candidates of the four parties came on the Union 
presented a sinister picture of a nation divided 
against itself. The great issue primarily was that 
of slavery and its limits. Upon this issue the 
South was as a unit for its preservation, the ma- 
jority for its extension and expansion. In No- 
vember, 1860, Lincoln was elected after one of 
the most bitter political fights ever witnessed in a 
republic. The South anticipated that, when the 
Republican party came into power at the inaugu- 
ration of their successful candidate in March, 
1861, they would not pause at restricting slavery, 
but would seek to entirely abolish it. In the in- 
tervening months before Lincoln’s inauguration 
the leaders in the State legislative bodies met in 
secret caucus and devised methods of organization 
for resistance. The Southern representatives in 
Congress formed a combative alliance for striking 
a blow at the new administration. One of the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 81 

most powerful, the most magnetic of the Southern 
members of Congress was Louis De Lacey, from 
the New Orleans District. He was tall and com- 
manding, with the profile of an Apollo and hair 
and eyes black as the raven’s wing. His voice was 
deep and impassioned. He was a born leader and 
patriot and stood first and foremost among his fel- 
lows. A brilliant lawyer, an erudite statesman, a 
keen diplomat, versed deeply in ancient and mod- 
ern lore, with the force and passion of youth, he 
swayed an audience, bending them to his will. 

De Lacey came of old French ancestry. He had 
been educated in the schools of Paris and at Hei- 
delberg University; and even in his maiden ef- 
forts in the courts of his native State he had elec- 
trified judges, jurors and spectators by the bril- 
liancy of his mind and his deep knowledge of the 
law of the land. His career was assured from 
the first, for in addition to his talents he had 
wealth, pride of birth and a personal magnetism 
which few could resist. When but a boy in years 
he was elected to the State Senate in Louisiana, 
and in debate had held his ground with the mas- 
ter minds of his day. At barely twenty-eight he 
was overwhelmingly elected to Congress as a Rep- 
resentative from his District and had taken Wash- 
ington society by storm. 

The reigning belle of the season of ’59 in the 
Capital circles was Edyth Lyle, of Richmond, Vir- 
ginia, whose father was one of the Solons of the 
Senate chamber. She was a cousin of Captain 
Preston, of Sunnyside, and bore to him a wonder- 
ful resemblance. Edyth Lyle was a perfect type 
of the golden-haired, azure-eyed blonde, with a 


82 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

figure over which artists raved. Her mind had 
been well trained, her voice carefully cultivated, 
and at her debut the whole of Washington bowed; 
at the throne of her beauty, grace and wit. Be- 
fore the season was over Louis De Lacey and Edyth 
Lyle had met, been mutually fascinated and at 
last had exchanged hearts; he laying his own at 
her feet to be accepted as a grand and wonderful 
treasure, she giving him her own in return, which 
he prized as of more value than all the gems of 
Ophir. 

Society voted them the handsomest, most mes- 
meric couple ever treading halls of pleasure or 
drinking together with the same cup from Love’s 
sparkling waters. 

In his first session he had made a national rep- 
utation as a silver-tongued orator, a wise states- 
man, and he was as a brilliant meteor falling into 
Congressional fields from Southern sky. Young 
and old paused on the avenue to watch them gal- 
lop by on their thoroughbreds in the early morn- 
ing, when together they sought a constitutional 
while society slept. Ardent and impetuous De 
Lacey wooed and won not only Edyth, but her 
father and mother yielded also to his charm of 
manner, his resplendent intellect, and agreed to a 
hasty June marriage. His wooing had been so 
zealous that society dubbed the couple “The Light 
and Shadow.” She was so fair, so radiant, so full 
of sunshine; he so tall, dark, handsome, brilliant, 
inspiring — ever in her train, following whither 
she would lead. 

And so, when the June roses bloomed they stood 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 83 

at the altar and were wed, a halo of joy and love 
seeming to enshrine them. 

$ ****** 

In April, 1861, the North awoke to hear the 
echoes from the Southern guns at Fort Sumter, 
and the torches were lit which spread the flames of 
war afar through the Southland. The newly in- 
stalled President of the United States issued a 
call for seventy-five thousand volunteers to pro- 
tect the flag of the Union, and soon around Wash- 
ington was gathered a mighty host of quickly 
formed regiments. 

Virginia, Arkansas, North Carolina and Ten- 
nessee now seceded and joined their forces to the 
Confederacy. Richmond, in Virginia, was se- 
lected as the capital of the new nation and hither 
was assembled the flower of the Southern army. 

Henry Preston, of Sunnyside, who had devoted 
the best years of his life to service beneath the 
Union banner, now cast his lot with the Con- 
federacy. Hastily he organized a regiment, which 
elected him as their colonel, and went forth to 
battle beneath the new flag of the “Stars and Bars” 
for the “Cause,” which his Southern heart told 
him was the one of right and justice. Geraldine, 
his loved wife, a daughter of the North, also felt 
that the cause of the South was just and to her 
brother Jack she wrote a beseeching letter, calling 
for his resignation and begging that he would 
not enter the lists arrayed against the Confed- 
eracy. 

But that letter was long in reaching him. At the 
first call for volunteers in New York he was at 
home on leave and had been commissioned colonel 


84 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

of a regiment of newly enlisted cavalrymen, and 
was now on his way to Washington, to soon meet 
defeat at the battle of Bull Bun, to see his raw 
troopers flee panic-stricken before the desperate 
charge of the Southern riders, led impetuously by 
Colonel Preston, all giving the hair-raising rebel 
yell. On this field it was that his regiment re- 
ceived the sobriquet of “The Swift New York/ 7 
which clung to them for the whole four years of 
war, long after they had become seasoned, the 
bravest of the brave, and had met and repulsed 
many a large force of daring Confederates. It 
was this crushing defeat in his first battle that 
long kept Colonel Jack Heathcote out of merited 
promotion, even after he had removed the stain 
from his escutcheon and had won victory over his 
gallant foes, seeing his silken standard riddled by 
storms of shot and shell, his depleted ranks filled 
again and again by new men taken from every walk 
in life. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 85 


CHAPTER X. 

The tide of war for four years had ebbed and 
flowed against Southern shores. The North and 
South had been arrayed against each other on 
many a well-fought field of battle. The “blue and 
gray” were both in tatters from long service and 
covered with stains of deadly civil strife. Silken 
banners, presented by friends of regiments, were 
torn in shreds by shot and shell, stately homes lay 
in ruins, waving fields were turned into barren 
wastes. Hearts once filled to overflowing with 
joy were now crushed and bleeding. Vales and 
hillsides were dotted by marked and unmarked 
graves of soldiers brave, who fought ’neath the 
“Stars and Stripes” or the “banner of the Lost 
Cause.” Father had been in hostile array against 
son, brother against brother and the Southland 
was made desolate, the Northern homes were 
draped in deepest mourning. 

With the springtime came the news of Lee’s sur- 
render at Appomattox and the disbanding of the 
Confederate troops. The war-worn veterans of the 
South returned to their ruined homes, cast aside 
the implements of war and sought in peaceful pur- 
suits to cause their sunny vales to bloom again as 
of old, ere scorched by the hot breath of Mars. 
Such of the Federal volunteer forces as were not 
needed for military occupation in the South and 


86 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

West were mustered out. Peace spread her white 
wings abroad o’er the land, banners were furled and 
only the echoes of war resounded where a short 
time before the din and carnage of battle reigned. 
Then came the days of Reconstruction and the re- 
admission of the seceded States into the Union. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

Nestled amid the foothills of the Blue Ridge 
in Virginia lay the town of Ashburton, and in its 
public park, opposite the court house, was camped 
Co. A, — th New York Cavalry, commanded by 
Captain Lionel Spencer. A row of tents was 
stretched from east to west facing the. tall flag- 
staff from which floated the Union flag, to which 
all were required in future to swear allegiance. 
In rear was the picket line of horses, raw-boned 
from arduous service in the field, but lithe and 
active. Captain Spencer was a young man of 
twenty-five, who had won his spurs and captain’s 
bars by gallantry in the days that tried men’s 
souls. Of commanding height, with a broad fore- 
head surmounted by wavy brown hair, a dark, 
piercing eye and firm mouth shaded by a pointed 
mustache, he was the ideal soldier. A strict dis- 
ciplinarian, yet not a martinet, he had the friend- 
ship of his troopers while exercising rigid author- 
ity. When his regiment was being organized in 
New York City, at the first call for volunteers, 
he had given up his position in his father’s bank 
and enlisted as a private in Co. A. As months of 
hard campaigning rolled by he had been rapidly 
advanced through the non-commissioned grades 
until at last for meritorious service he had re- 
ceived his shoulder straps as a second lieutenant. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 87 

Brave, fearless, self-reliant, he had fought beneath 
his colors in many a skirmish, and when in charge 
of a platoon on foraging expeditions or on scouting 
duty in the face of the enemy, his discretion ran 
counter to his courage. He had seen much ser- 
vice, being inured by “days of danger, nights of 
waking” to the hardships of war. His star of 
destiny was ever in the ascendant and gradually he 
rose to his present rank, cleaving his way upward 
by strict attention to every duty, by many a deed 
of daring, which his hardy veteran trooperp loved 
to recount over their pipes by the camp firrf glow. 
The town of Ashburton, where he was now quar- 
tered with his company, was in a hot bed of se- 
cessionists, and many of its sons had gone forth 
to battle under the “Stars and Bars” at war’s first 
alarums. Those whose lives had been spared at 
Manassas, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg and other 
sanguinary conflicts where their valor had been 
tested amid storm of shot and shell, as they hurled 
themselves against the Federal forces striving to 
uphold the cause so dear to their hearts, were now 
straggling back, crushed by defeat, overwhelmed 
by the ruin and desolation spread out on every 
hand, to be forced 'to grant their former slaves 
equality and respect their civil rights. To them 
the sight of the Union flag floating from the flag- 
staff in the midst of their homes or the blackened 
walls representing former happy abodes (for many 
had been laid low in ashes by ruthless hands be- 
cause they sheltered the families of Confederate 
officers and strong sympathizers of the Southern 
cause) was agonizing; yet they must yield up to it 
their allegiance in years to come and see their own 


88 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

loved banner trailed in the dust. The yoke of the 
conqueror was upon their necks and they must 
bow their heads in meek submission to the will, of 
the god of battles. The “Bonnie Blue Flag,” which 
was hoisted more than four years before upon 
the State House at Richmond amid a new nation’s 
general outburst of patriotic enthusiasm, had been 
ably, nobly defended by the heart’s blood of thou- 
sands on many a field of glory, but their cause was 
lost, their country made desolate. 

The fires of zeal for the Confederacy had caused 
many a Southland mother, wife and sweetheart to 
send forth their brave loved ones to battle — clothed 
in the bright uniform of gray — who now received 
them back torn and bleeding in limb and at heart ; 
or else were left to mourn o’er the memories of 
distant battlefields where — 

“On Fame's eternal camping ground 
Their silent tents are spread; 

And glory guards with ceaseless round 
The bivouac of the dead ” 

Bitter as the Dead Sea apple was the sight of the 
flaunting Stars and Stripes, when at the first note 
of reveille at sunrise the corporal of the guard 
would hoist the flag on the staff in the camp and 
the gentle morning breeze would unfurl it, causing 
it to flap rythmically in the emblazonment of the 
sun of coming summer. Captain Spencer had been 
ordered to Ashburton with his troopers after the 
surrender of Lee and J ohnston, to establish a camp 
and to quell all disorders during the days of “Re- 
construction.” Though young in years, his was 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 89 

a master hand, and in obedience to orders from 
Colonel Jack Heathcote, who had commanded the 
regiment during the war, he had marched into 
this former Southern stronghold at the close of a 
day in June, ’65, and taken possession of the park. 
The captain had issued ironclad orders that none 
should leave camp without authority, that no 
liquors should be brought inside the lines and that 
the property and rights of the citizens should be 
respected, under penalty of court martial and se- 
vere punishment. The inactivity of camp life, the 
ceaseless round of duty from reveille until retreat, 
begets mischief and breeds revolt even among well- 
trained soldiers. You can dam up the mountain 
stream and confine its waters for a time, but they 
gradually rise above the level of the obstruction 
and pour over it with a resistless torrent. So 
veteran troops cooped up in camp or garrison soon 
weary of the routine and long to break forth from 
restraint and give unbridled rein to their desires. 

Two miles out from Ashburton and far back 
in the forest from the main roadway to Richmond 
lay the ancestral acres of General Henry Preston, 
of the Confederate army. A stately stone mansion 
in the centre of the demesne, half covered with 
ivy, the dark walls rising above the crest of the 
hill and frowning down upon a sloping lawn run- 
ning to the rivePs bank on the east, had for many 
decades sheltered his family and showered hos- 
pitalities upon the residents of the town and coun- 
tryside. Before death had taken away the old 
master, and war with all its attendant horrors 
had swept over the beautiful vales and forest- 


90 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

crowned hills of the “Old Dominion/’ this lovely 
home — Snnnyside — had been the scene of many a 
night of revelry, and its lights had shone over the 
brave and fair gathered within its portals. The 
fortunes of war had spared this mansion from the 
torch, though the fields and barns had been raided, 
its fences burned and in its stables only “Peach 
Blossom,” the beautiful pet mare of Mary Pres- 
ton, remained. This fleet-footed and gentle thor- 
oughbred had felt the saddle of a Federal raider 
some weeks before the surrender, but two days 
after being ridden away her neigh at midnight 
had aroused her mistress from troubled dreams 
and she was again installed beneath the home roof. 

The faithful slaves who, during the war, had 
tilled the fields, gathered the harvests, tended the 
looms, protected the “Missus,” “young Missus” 
and little “Mars Harry” De Lacey, a ward of the 
general, as best they could, had become terror 
stricken after the raid of the Federals. They were 
told that they were free, that Lincoln had emanci- 
pated them and they must not work for their for- 
mer owners any longer or they would be severely 
punished. Some of the young negroes had fol- 
lowed the “sojers” away to learn what freedom 
meant. Their mistress, Geraldine Preston, when 
the first news of utter defeat and Lee’s surrender 
had come to her, quieted them by explaining that 
they were free , and no longer subject to her orders, 
but begged them to remain on the plantation until 
the general should return, who would provide for 
them and reward their faithful service. She had 
been a good mistress and kind, ever seeking to 
lighten their labors, ministering to their wants, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 91 

encouraging them in their amusements, alleviating 
their sufferings in sickness, adjusting their dis- 
putes. 

To her they now turned for advice, for they 
were like unto little children. 

The service rendered to the flag of the Stars and 
Bars by Henry Preston had been brilliani and ef- 
fective, meeting with prompt recognition at Rich- 
mond, the capital of the Confederacy. In the 
closing days of August, ’62, he had led his forces 
in the thickest of the fray at the second battle of 
Manassas; and on this historic ground had seen 
the Union army crushed and defeated. With Lee 
he had crossed the Potomac, moving on to Wash- 
ington, and bravely, ^gallantly, desperately charged 
upon the solid phalanx of opposing hosts at Antie- 
tam, and, though defeated in the combat, he gained 
undying laurels. 

In the chilly days of December his regiment 
had again met the shock of battle at Fredericks- 
burg, on the Rappahannock, where the roar of 
artillery could be heard within the portals of his 
own home at Sunnyside, miles away. For his valor 
and gallantry on the field of battle Preston was 
promoted to the grade of a brigadier-general. Af- 
terward, during this fratricidal war, he led his 
famed brigade through the fiery tempest at Get- 
tysburg in the three days’ dreadful conflict, and 
on the third night saw the “Star of the South” 
slowly waning in the sky, soon to go down in 
eternal darkness. In the “Battle of the Wilder- 
ness,” having become separated from his command, 
he was captured and held as a prisoner of war until 


92 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

July, 1865. Together with an aide and two order- 
lies, he had advanced beyond the Confederate lines 
as the tide of battle surged forward and backward 
through the dense woods, and came unexpectedly 
into the midst of a reconnoitering party of Federal 
cavalry. They were immediately surrounded and 
twenty guns were levelled at their breasts. From 
the orderly sergeant in charge of the platoon came 
the stern command : “Halt ! and surrender, or ye'll 
be blown to smithereens.” General Preston, with 
all his bravery and dash, knew that escape was 
impossible, and, desiring to save the lives of his 
followers, quietly surrendered and his party yielded 
up their arms. When the sergeant had disarmed 
them he gallantly returned the officers their swords, 
telling them that they should surrender these to 
his colonel within the Federal lines. 

Begrimed by smoke of battle and bearded as 
were these troopers from long campaigning, the 
general did not discover the identity of the cav- 
alry sergeant to whom he had surrendered. 

By the strange decrees of fate, ’twas Sergeant 
Murphy, the former quartermaster sergeant of 
Jack Heathcote’s troop of dragoons, who had 
made the swift night ride to the camp on the 
Guadalupe in Texas, long ago, bringing the sad 
message of Juanita’s illness. 

A few weeks before war’s alarums were sounded 
he had been discharged at St. Louis, after ten years 
of faithful service in the — th Dragoons, and had 
returned to New York City to visit his relatives, 
whom he had not seen in all these years of army 
life. When volunteers were first called for by 
Lincoln’s proclamation in ’61, and Jack Heath- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 93 

cote, his loved captain, was commissioned as colonel 
of the — th New York Cavalry, Sergeant Murphy 
again sought the recruiting office and enlisted 
under his old commander, to whom he was much 
attached. He was at once made an orderly ser- 
geant, and time and time again, as war’s fierce 
fires increased, had refused offers of a commission 
for gallantry in action. He preferred his che /rons 
and the rank and file with the “boys” to the stars 
of a general. Like many a son of Erin’s Isle, he 
loved the flag of the Stars and Stripes next to the 
memory of his sainted mother and his God. 

Now as the shades of night were failing and 
North and South rested on their arms, he marched 
his prisoners into the camp of his regiment and 
halted in front of his colonel’s tent. His prisoners 
and troopers were dismounted, and, as Colonel J ack 
Heathcote threw aside the flaps of his tent and 
stepped out into the twilight, over which hung 
the drifting clouds of battle smoke, Sergeant 
Murphy quickly advanced, saluted his chief and 
said : “Colonel, I deliver up to ye four prisoners 
of war and amongst thim is Ginrol Preston; may 
God rist his sowl.” 

Here, then, amid war’s waste and desolation, 
they meet again, the blue and the gray, comrades 
and brothers once, following the same banner, 
brothers still, though they stand in the dusky twi- 
light as captor and prisoner. Strong men both, 
brave, gallant, daring; but as they rush toward 
each other now, forgetful of time and place and 
circumstance of war, their eyes are brimming o’er 
wiih tears, and while folded in manly embrace 
trembling voices murmur, “Henry,” “ J ack.” 


94 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Three years of war had left sad traces through- 
out the sunny vales of the Southland. Amid the 
grand forests, on every hillside, lay side by side the 
boys who wore the blue and those who wore the 
gray. 

“The sun clothes every mound with equal glory , 
The shy weeps o'er all alike ” 

Yet another year must roll by on leaden wheels 
ere the din and carnage of battle may cease. 

Geraldine Preston, at Sunnyside, has been in- 
formed of her husband’s capture, yet is assured 
of his safety; and now nightly on bended knees 
she and Mary pray for a surcease of war, for his 
return “after many days.” Colonel Heathcote, her 
brother, has sought in every way to save the broad 
acres, the grand old mansion at Sunnyside, from 
the torch and flame, and so far has been successful. 
His own dear wife, Juanita, is far away at High- 
land View, on the Hudson, where only the sad 
echoes of the bitter strife are borne to her ears. 
During the first year of the war a girl baby came to 
bless her home, and now she folds in her loving 
arms her two children, Roi and Florence, waiting, 
hoping, watching for Jack’s home-coming, tor 
peace to spread her white wings over the desolate 
land. 

General Preston had been sent as a prisoner of 
war to Fortress Monroe, where in prison cell he 
heard the news of the downfall of Southern hopes, 
of the abandonment of Petersburg and Richmond 
and of the surrender of Lee at Appomattox. 

The war was over; but at awful cost to both 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 95 

North and South. Hundreds of thousands had 
given up their lives and their ashes were scattered 
broadcast o’er the blood-stained land. 

Years would elapse ere the bloody chasm would 
he bridged and harmony be restored. Only the 
passage of long time, and — in the end — a war with 
some foreign power for humanity’s sake, could 
fully unite the hostile factions and cause the 
“Yankee” and “ Johnnie Keb” to lie down peace- 
fully together beneath the starry folds of their 
country’s banner. 


96 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Two days after South Carolina had seceded 
from the Union, and while North and South stood 
on the threshold of a conflict which would startle 
the whole civilized world, in a magnificent old man- 
sion in Richmond, under the shadow of the dome in 
Capitol Square, a child was horn to Louis De Lacey 
and his wife Edyth, a boy whose life was to be as 
stormy as the days of the civil strife upon which 
he first opened his eyes on that eventful 13th of 
December, A.D. 1860. 

He was named Harold, and from his mother in- 
herited his Norse type, being fair and azure-eyed. 

When, a month later, Louisiana had cast her lot 
with the Confederacy and Louis De Lacey had 
withdrawn from Congress, it was his voice, deep 
and impassioned, which called upon the people of 
Richmond, among whom he was temporarily so- 
journing, to urge prompt action in legislative halls. 

At the reverberations of the guns of Fort Sum- 
ter, Louis De Lacey, who still lingered in Rich- 
mond by the side of his loved wife and child, ten- 
dered his sword to the new government, and to him 
the Confederate flag became an object of profound 
love and passionate devotion. For four long years 
of war and bloodshed, through scenes of death and 
desolation, through victory and defeat, he ably, 
valiantly served as an aide de camp on the staff of 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 97 

General Robert E. Lee. His last and closing year 
of ardent, devoted service to the “Bonnie Blue 
Flag” was filled with wondrous daring and splendid 
exhibitions of reckless courage. His fair Edyth, 
his loved wife, had sickened and died, and his star 
of hope seemed to sink forever into the dark, illim- 
itable waters of despair. Like many another noble 
daughter of the South, she consecrated her young 
life to nursing the sick, to ministering to the 
wounded ; and daily, nightly, she came to the “Sol- 
diers’ Rest,” high upon Clay street in Richmond, 
like an angel visitant. With tenderness born of 
her love for the cause and its gallant defenders, 
she strove to alleviate suffering, to banish pain. 
From the hospital, with its scenes of death and 
forms mangled sore, she would turn away, after 
hours of nursing, faint and wearied ; but unfalter- 
ingly would return on the morrow with the light 
of patient hope shining in her blue eyes. At last 
her strength failed and she laid her tired head upon 
her pillow, never to rise again. Death had sought 
a shining mark and planted his kiss upon her white 
brow. Her sweet, gentle spirit was borne away 
from the scenes of bloodshed and desolation, which 
marked her beloved Southland home. Her boy of 
three years, little Harold, was taken away to Sun- 
nyside by Geraldine Preston, where, amid sylvan 
scenes, his young mind would not recall “too oft” 
that loving, devoted mother who had passed away 
from this vale of tears. 

In that grand old home on the Rappahannock 
he was encompassed by the love of Geraldine and 
Mary Preston, and witnessed the last sad scenes 
.of the bitter struggle between North and South. 


98 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Young as he was, his mother’s image with every 
beautiful lineament lingered in his childish mem- 
ory, never to be forgot through the long years of 
a stormy pilgrimage on life’s scattered pathways, 
ever to appear to him on land and sea, the brightest 
picture on memory’s walls. 

sj> sfs sfc sfc H* ^ 

On the night of April 8th, 1865, General Lee, 
the commander of the Southern forces, the mighty 
leader whom they had followed hopefully, trust- 
fully, bravely, was broken in spirit and filled with 
despair. Worn out and shattered, his troops lay 
encamped, and the task of making a conjunction 
with J ohnston for a last final conflict seemed hope- 
less. The cause for which the best blood of the 
South had been offered up as a sacrifice seemed 
.lost ; the last ray of starlight was fading in South- 
ern skies; the flag of the Confederacy must be 
furled forever. Calling together his staff. General 
Lee informed them that the die was cast and on 
the morrow he would lay down his arms and sur- 
render his sword, yielding up the now unequal 
strife. 

Louis De Lacey heard with submission the de- 
signs of his chief and “passed under the rod.” In 
the silent watches of the night, while the weary 
and battle-scarred veterans slept, his thoughts w$re 
flying fast over the events of the four years of war- 
fare ; of the sacred tomb where reposed his Edyth ; 
of his boy, left motherless by the sad decrees of 
fate ; of the desolate land now to be trodden by the 
grinding heel of the conqueror. His heart was al- 
ready too sore to view the coming days of military 
occupation of the Southland he loved so well. He 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 99 

resolved never to surrender, and pencilled a note to 
his chief telling him “that for the first time he 
would now turn his back to the foe and flee to some 
foreign land, offer his sword to some distant nation, 
seek surcease in strange climes from the sorrows 
which bowed him down.” Procuring his horse and 
such valuables as were sacred to him, he passed 
through the line of wearied Confederate sexitinels, 
away from the tented field, and alone galloped out 
into the darkness to seek and gain a foreign strand. 

The roses of June were blooming far and wide, 
the smoke of battle had been wafted away on the 
winds of coming summer, the echoes of war were 
silenced. At Highland View, on the Hudson, there 
had been a joyful reunion between Colonel Heath- 
cote, brevet brigadier-general, U. S. Army, and his 
loved ones. He had applied for leave until Sep- 
tember and returned to his boyhood’s home, where 
father, mother, wife and children greeted him with • 
a wealth of love and banished for a time from his 
mind all thoughts of war and its harrowing scenes. 
How proudly, how fondly did Juanita gaze upon 
his stalwart form, feasting her dark eyes upon his 
bronzed features — and ah ! what thrills of rapture 
filled her bosom when he lifted up Eoi on one arm 
and little Florence on the other and their childish 
arms encircled his neck, their caressing lips were 
pressed to his. Only twice before, for a few short 
days, had he been enabled to visit them during 
the four long years of war ; and now that cruel war 
was over, to be followed by — 

“The soul’s calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy ” 

L.ofC. 


100 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Far away in their Virginia home lived Geraldine 
and Mary, encompassed by the desolating scenes 
of the civil strife. 

A prisoner at Fortress Monroe, the master of 
Sunnyside, General Preston, was still incarcerated, 
fretting out his lonely hours as a prisoner of war. 

It was decided in family conclave to bear to these 
sorrowing ones the olive branch, and bring them 
out into the sunlight from the shadows. 

More than five years had elapsed since they had 
all been gathered under the same roof, and but few 
letters had passed between them. The rigor of war 
had prevented communications being forwarded 
through the lines, and sentiment in the neighbor- 
hood of Highland View had been rancorous against 
Geraldine and her “rebel” husband. How the road- 
ways to the South were open and they would jour- 
ney to Sunnyside and from their plenteousness 
bear with them a well-filled cornucopia to empty 
into Geraldine’s lap. 

So the post bore southward long messages from 
them all of love and condolence; and Geraldine 
was informed of their coming. J ack, in his letter, 
promised to stop over in Washington and use all 
his influence to secure the release of her husband. 

While the month of J une was still young Sunny- 
side received its guests. It was not a time for 
merrymaking, for the hearts of Geraldine and 
Mary were saddened by scenes of war ; but ’twas as 
a love feast, a communion of sorrowing hearts glad- 
dened by contiguity and rejoicing over the dawn of 
a new day. Geraldine’s home was again filled with 
those so near and dear and J ack brought her hope 
of her husband’s speedy release. Her father, whose 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 101 

means were ample, had thrust upon her an abun- 
dance of gold and insisted that she should accept it 
as a part of her heritage from his estate. With 
this money Sunnyside could again, be clothed in 
the garments of old, and its broad acres and fer- 
tile soil would redeem their lost fortunes. Many 
of her former slaves would be glad to remain in 
their old “quarters” and as freemen labor in the 
same fields for hire or for a share of the harvests. 


102 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A strange attachment often exists between man 
and beast, and especially between the cavalryman 
and his charger. Colonel Heathcote had a warm 
and tender spot in his heart for "Don,” his gallant 
roan, a horse which he had ridden many a mile 
across the plains of Texas in the ante-bellum days 
and over many a field of battle in the four years of 
war. Though both horse and rider had felt the 
stinging, burning pains of bullet wounds and sabre 
stroke in the shock of serried hosts in battle ar- 
ray, they still lived and the fires of ardor yet glowed 
in their veins at sound of trumpet calls or the 
music of the band. Their wounds were slight, and 
only the scars remained as evidence of the bitter 
strife which had so long been waged. 

When Colonel Heathcote, in compliance with or- 
ders received a few weeks after the surrender, had 
segregated his regiment and assigned them by bat- 
talion or company to outlying points beyond Rich- 
mond and applied for his leave, he had intrusted 
to Captain Spencer the care of Don, as Co. A, by 
his selection, was to go into camp at Ashburton, 
two miles from Sunnyside, the home of his sister. 

On the morning of the third day, after the ar- 
rival of the Heathcote family at Sunnyside, the 
Colonel indited a note to his captain in camp re- 
questing that his horse be sent out to him, together 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 103 

with his saddle equipments. Sambo, the body ser- 
vant of General Preston, who had followed him 
through all the days of his army career, under 
both the flags of North and South, and had re- 
turned to his mistress, footsore and weary after the 
capture of his beloved master at the “Battle of the 
Wilderness,” was now sent to Ashburton with the 
note and was instructed to lead Don out to the 
plantation. 

Sambo delivered the message promptly and re- 
newed his acquaintance with the uniforms of “blue 
and buff,” among the troopers finding Sergeant 
Murphy, whom he had long known in the garri- 
sons of the West, in the old days when his “Mars 
Henry” also wore “the blue.” This old slave, like 
all of his race, was soft and pliable as wax in the 
hands of those who gave him a kind word and 
merry sally ; and his only fault was his love for “a 
sip from de bottle to put a shuffle in his heels,” as 
he expressed it. 

As he had come on an errand for the colonel, he 
was given the liberty of the camp, and the soldiers 
had quife a frolic with him. Some of the men, 
finding that Sambo was prone to “the bowl that 
cheers,” enticed him into buying liquor for them 
in the town and smuggling it within the lines, thus 
violating the strict orders issued by Captain Spen- 
cer. Soon there were merry songs and jolly 
chaffing; and, while the troopers were “patting in 
rag time,” the big feet of Sambo were “cutting sad 
capers on the green,” his eyes were bulging out 
from the unwonted exertion and his white teeth 
were broadly displayed between his thick lips. 

Seated in his tent, with the tattered silken 


104 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

guidon floating above the ridge pole, wishing for 
a sight of home, the open note of Colonel Heath- 
cote lying upon his field desk, the sounds of revelry 
in the camp reached the ears of Captain Spencer. 
Looking out upon the scene he smiled and thought 
how quickly soldiers forget the scenes of danger 
and bloodshed through which they pass; how full 
. of mischief and deviltry they become when cooped 
up in camp under severe restraint. After a time 
Sambo fell aweary and betook himself homeward, 
leading Don by the bridle reins. In the sunshine 
of that June afternoon Sambo strolled along the 
roadway toward Sunnyside, having often to check 
the long, quick stride of Don, for the gallant horse 
felt in high fettle to be untethered from the picket 
line and to get out on the shaded country road. 
When they entered the gates and reached the stable 
yard the whole family came out and Don neighed 
joyfully, giving every sign of recognition and love. 

As his glossy neck was caressed he rubbed his 
nose affectionately against his master and lifted 
his forefoot to “shake hands,” as he had been 
taught. Never did horse receive a greater ovation, 
and his bright eyes gleamed with evident satisfac- 
tion. As Sambo started to lead him away from the 
group to his stall he quickly laid back his slender 
ears and became refractory, but a caressing word 
from his master quieted him and he strode 'sul- 
lenly away to the stables, answering the neigh of 
“Peach Blossom” welcoming his arrival to her 
lonely tenement. 

On the following day Colonel Heathcote and 
Mary Preston rode into Ashburton, starting in the 
early morning when all nature seemed animated. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 105 

He wished to consult with Captain Spencer rel- 
ative to regimental affairs and his duties in this 
trying time of military occupation. Mary had 
shopping to do for the household, and a few friends 
in the town whom she desired to pay “a pop call.” 
She was an ardent horsewoman; and in her dark, 
close-fitting riding habit, with erect, graceful fig- 
ure and firm seat, she made an attractive picture, 
fair to look upon, a vision of girlish beauty to 
linger long in memory. So thought Captain Spen- 
cer, who stood upon the wide veranda of the old 
“Colonnade Hotel,” leaning against one of the sup- 
porting columns while enjoying his after-breakfast 
cigar and looking across to the camp, where the 
simple ceremony of “guard mount” was being en- 
acted. His colonel had often spoken to him in ret- 
rospective mood of the fair niece who had been 
born and bred in the far Western garrisons under 
the folds of the Stars and Stripes ; but was in days . 
of war a devotee to her father’s banner, intensely 
loyal to the “Bonnie Blue Flag.” 

Now up the street they were slowly riding, 
headed for the hotel, and the captain’s intuition 
told him instantly that the fair companion of his 
chief was Mary Preston, the beautiful rebel, whose 
father, the Confederate general, had been captured 
by his own orderly sergeant more than a year be- 
fore. His first thought was that she would forever 
hate and scorn him, by reason of his uniform of 
blue, and this was a consummation not to be de- 
sired, after his eyes had rested upon her face and 
figure, even at a distance. As the twain reached 
the curb in front of the hotel Captain Spencer came 
quickly forward to salute his colonel, and, stand- 


106 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

in g with bared head before them, was presented to 
the lovely niece. Their eyes met, eyes of intense 
brown and softest blue; and in that first glance 
Lionel Spencer realized that it would be dangerous 
to his peace of mind and lightness of heart to look 
often into her sunny face. Mary looked down upon 
his frank, expressive countenance, into his deep 
brown eyes, admiring his athletic build and mili- 
tary bearing; but in the four years of desolating 
warfare she had not learned to look upon the 
“Yankees” with favor. She greeted him now cour- 
teously when he spoke of the pleasure it gave him 
to meet the niece of his colonel, and, when the 
stable boys came out to take charge of their horses, 
she permitted him to assist her to dismount and 
thanked him graciously. 

Then, with musical voice, she said: “Now, 
Uncle Jack, I will leave you with Captain Spencer 
while I make a few calls. I will be through in 
time so that we can gallop home for dinner. Per- 
haps, if you request him, the captain will join us 
for the ride and break bread with us at Sunny- 
side.” 

Laughingly Colonel Heathcote replied : “I 
have a better way to enforce the captain’s attend- 
ance, Mary. As his superior officer, I shall com- 
mand him to return with us and he dare not refuse. 
I have some papers for him, anyway, among my 
luggage and he can go out with us and get them.” 
Captain Spencer pleasantly acknowledged his ob- 
ligations for the invitation and agreed to accom- 
pany them. Mary gracefully gathered up the long 
folds of her black broadcloth riding skirt, and, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 107 

bowing adienx to these Federal officers, tripped 
away. 

When the dogs of war were loosed she was only 
on the verge of maidenhood ; but those days which 
tried men’s souls had caused her to skip the brook 
and early reach the river. At fifteen she was wom- 
anly, at sixteen a woman, and had been her moth- 
er’s pillar of strength to sustain and uphold her 
in hours of darkness and dread. Now in her nine- 
teenth year she had given no thought as yet to love 
and marriage, but was wedded to her home, her 
family, her friends and to the cause of the South- 
land. 

A half hour before the noontide Colonel Heath- 
cote and Captain Spencer saw Mary Preston re- 
turning to the hotel, and Captain Spencer walked 
rapidly over to the camp and directed his orderly 
to saddle his horse, while he prepared a hasty sol- 
dier’s toilet. Together they rode out through the 
forest to Sunnyside, and to Mary her Uncle Jack 
related a little story which she had not hitherto 
heard. 

A squad of raiders belonging to his regiment, 
while on detached service, had violated his orders 
and committed many depredations along the Rap- 
pahannock, just at the close of the war. When they 
rejoined their command they were leading a beau- 
tiful mare with four white feet and a star in her 
forehead. She showed excellent breeding and 
gentle care and was evidently the property of some 
daughter of the Southland, who now mourned her 
loss at the hands of the Federals. Sergeant Mur- 
phy, of Co. A, who had for many years served with 
him in the West, recognized the mare at once as 


108 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the property of “the daughter” of his old regiment 
of — th Dragoons and reported the facts to the 
captain who commanded his company. 

That gallant officer immediately ordered the 
mare returned to her owner, and sent a trusted 
corporal in charge of a squad to make the proper 
restitution. They arrived about midnight at the 
plantation and immediately the mare set up a series 
of joyful neighs. She was turned loose within the 
gates and a white-robed figure ran out to welcome 
the return of her pet. 

A ray of intelligence lighted Mary’s face as the 
colonel proceeded with his story, for now she knew 
that he referred to “Peach Blossom,” her own loved 
mount. Her heart warmed toward the captain, 
who had acted so gallantly, and she said : 

“Uncle Jack, when you join your regiment again 
tell that generous captain that I shall never, no 
never, forget his kind act; and in future I shall 
not bear malice toward the uniform of a Union 
officer.” She spoke from the fulness of her gentle 
heart and smiled through her tears upon both her 
uncle and the captain. 

A few moments passed in silence and Lionel 
Spencer’s heart was throbbing fast as he dropped 
a pace behind them, so that unobserved he could 
cast admiring glances upon this lovely, impulsive 
girl. Finally Colonel Heathcote’s eyes began t6 
twinkle mischievously and he remarked : 

“Mary, the generous cavalry officer of whom I 
spoke will soon come to Sunnyside to receive in- 
structions from me relative to his duties in these 
days of reconstruction and you can tender him 
your thanks in person.” 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 109 

“Oh !” she said, “how gladly will I welcome him 
to our home and extend to him the hand of lasting 
friendship. Just think how unhappy I should have 
been if I had never seen my Teach Blossom’ again. 
Papa, you remember, gave her to me when she was 
three years old, and when we came home from Jef- 
ferson Barracks we brought her on the same boat. 
I am just as much attached to her as a mother to 
her child.” Her soft hand now patted the arched 
neck and the mare whinnied as if she understood. 
The road wound its way out of the forest and they 
came to the gates of Sunnyside, which a negro boy 
opened for them. 

But Colonel Heathcote called a halt, and, turn- 
ing to his niece, said merrily: “Mary, I do not 
wish to have Captain Spencer advance further into 
your domain until you assure him more fully as 
to his welcome. ’Twas he who gallantly returned 
your equine pet and you must now extend to him 
the royal hand of fellowship which you promised.”' 

Blushingly furiously, she held out her gloved 
hand to the captain and thanked him. 

❖ * sjs ❖ ❖ sf* 

A month rolled by, filled with many visits to 
Sunnyside, and there were enjoyable horseback 
rides and moonlight boating upon the placid river. 
Captain Spencer at last rode out daily — sometimes 
twice daily — until Sergeant Murphy concluded 
that his captain was trying to bring about a new 
Union of North and South and settling all the per- 
plexing issues of reconstruction “on his own hook.” 
The men of his troop laughed around the camp 
fires and said “there were victories both in peace 
and war.” 


110 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

“Well,” said Sergeant Murphy, “how kin yeze 
blame the captain ? Whin she wus the dauther of 
our rigimint of dragoons she wus loved by the hull 
lot, an* we’d a bowed our bodies in the dust fur 
her to walk on if she’d ’a said the wurrud. And 
ride! Shure, whin she was a hinfant she could 
give all yez cards and spades an’ bate yez out. Bliss 
her bonnie face, but she’s too gude for a ginral.” 

They had several times galloped into town side 
by side and the troopers had watched them from 
the limits of the camp, surmising that their cap- 
tain was “hard hit” by the colonel’s niece. Though 
he was often absent on duty at Sunny side, Captain 
Spencer did not relax the strict rules which he had 
issued ; and Lieutenant Hickey, the only junior of- 
ficer present with the company, was left in charge 
to enforce all regulations during his absence. Sev- 
eral times a number of the men had procured too 
large a cargo of liquor and bedlam had broken 
loose in camp and town ; and there were blows and 
insults passed between the troopers and citizens. 
More stringent measures had been resorted to and 
several negroes had been tied up by the thumbs for 
smuggling liquor within the lines. 

Sambo, too, had been twice warned of the same 
punishment by the lieutenant; for he came often 
into town to “hob-nob” with the soldiers and they 
would corrupt him. 

In this fleeting month which had passed Captain 
Spencer had become an ardent worshipper at 
Mary’s shrine, forming for her a deep, a lifelong 
attachment. Her family had received him at Sun- 
nyside from the first with friendly courtesies, rec- 
ognizing in him the personification of gentility, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. Ill 

intellectuality and gallantry. Though from an 
honored and wealthy New York family, he had won 
his own way upward on his individual merits. 
Mary’s heart had been stirred to its innermost 
depths by his ardent wooing, and she had been 
friendly, gracious, charming, beaming. Her moth- 
er and Uncle Jack and Aunt ’Nita looked on, 
smiling at love’s young dreams. They watched the 
gradual unfolding of the petals in Cupid’s garden 
until they viewed the full blown blossoms of hope, 
of joy and of love. All was light, there were no 
shadows. To Mary and her soldier lover the skies 
seemed ever bright. In the songs of the birds and 
hum of the insects there was sweeter music than of 
old; the very stars — “yon bright and glorious 
blazonry” — glowed in the vaults above with added 
lustre. 

The words had not been spoken, but had several 
times trembled upon Lionel Spencer’s lips. His , 
secret was one which “those who ran might read” 
in his frank, open, tell-tale face, in his honest 
brown eyes as they dwelt upon Mary’s radiant 
features. 


“Mightier far 

Than strength of nerve or sinew , or the sway 
Of magic , potent over sun and star , 

Is Love ■, though oft to agony distrest , 

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's 
breast 


112 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


' CHAPTER XIII. 

In the warm afternoon sunshine of a July day 
Captain Spencer rode out to Sunnyside with his 
mind fully made up to tell the sweet secret to his 
beloved, to confess the depths of his fond attach- 
ment, to lay at Mary Preston’s feet his life, his all. 
He found her on the shaded piazza awaiting his 
coming. That morning’s mail had brought to the 
household on the banks of the Rappahannock good 
news ; and every heart within the walls of the old 
Southern home was rejoicing. General Preston 
had at last been released from his long imprison- 
ment in Fortress Monroe and his home return 
could now be hourly expected. 

To her lover Mary related the joyous anticipa- 
tions of the coming of her father and what great 
happiness would now abide in Sunnyside. From 
the days of infancy on through the fleeting years 
to her womanhood she had idolized her parent and 
showered upon him all the wealth of her ardent 
love and affection. 

Mary’s heart was singing a glad song and Cap- 
tain Spencer deemed the hour auspicious to rejoice 
with her in her joy and at the same time to declare 
his love. 

“Mary,” he said, “I wear the uniform which for 
four long years was hateful to you as the guise of 
your country’s enemy; but in this garb you wel- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 113 

corned me to your home and admitted me as a 
friend. Since that first visit you have given me 
cause to hope that, through me, you have forgiven 
and forgotten the sad issues of war. Now there is 
a state of peace, and that means a lifting of the 
shadows of hatred and enmity and the readmission 
of the light of love and trust. In these bright days 
of summer you have woven around me a golden 
web of fortifications, from which I cannot extricate 
myself, in which I shall ever be imprisoned as a 
‘prisoner of peace/ I love you, Mary, fondly, 
truly.” 

Before seating himself by her side he had lain 
aside his cavalry sabre and belt, leaning them 
against the balustrade. Now rising, he reached 
for his side arms and gracefully tendered the sabre 
to Mary, saying : 

“As your father yielded his sword to the over- 
powering force of Federal arms under my com- 
mand, now I surrender mine to the overwhelming 
power of the charms and graces of his daughter and 
acknowledge myself her prisoner forever and aye. 
Will you accept me as such, Mary, and hold me as 
your willing captive through all the days of fu- 
turity? I shall never ask for freedom, but will 
glory over my captivity.” 

Many times, in her care-free garrison life of the 
olden time, Mary had buckled her fathers sword 
about her slender waist, drawn forth the shining 
blade in true dragoon fashion and executed the 
“manual” and the “exercise” as she had seen the 
movements executed at drill or parade by the stal- 
wart troopers. Now she rose, and, grasping the 
scabbard with slender left hand at the upper band, 


114 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

she inserted her right through the sabre knot, and, 
firmly clasping the grip, drew sabre with military 
precision, faced her suppliant foe and commanded : 

“ Kn eel, boy in blue, and bow your head in pen- 
ance before your forgiving victor.” Then she let 
the flashing blade rest for a moment upon his 
bowed head and said: “Rise, Sir Knight, I dub 
thee my accepted lover, and in your helmet you 
shall wear in future a lock of hair from the crown 
of the Southern maid who forgives, but can never 
forget. When its hue changes from golden to the 
color of the ‘Confederate gray’ it must still be 
your emblem.” 

He rose in time to meet the laughing eyes and 
merry faces of Colonel Heathcote, his wife and 
Mrs. Preston, who, with Harold De Lacey and Roi 
and Florence, had been down at the old mill rev- 
elling in the shade of the trees, giving the children 
an outing. Their approach had been screened by 
the clinging vines of eglantine running in thick 
profusion along the half latticed verandas. 

“Bravo!” cried the colonel. “Queen Bess her- 
self, in the days of chivalry, could not have been 
more dramatic in creating knighthood. Has ‘the 
blue’ surrendered to ‘the gray/ Spencer, after wear- 
ing the laurels of victory? ‘Peace hath her vic- 
tories no less renowned than war/ they say. Three 
and twenty years ago, Mary, as I came up these 
same steps I found your mother here, with carna- 
tion hues on her cheeks just like those now bloom- 
ing on yours, and I doubt not caused by the same 
process. Well, are we to tender congratulations? 
Is the war of hearts over, the flag of truce float- 
ing over both camps ?” 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 115 

There were two faces “like the red, red rose” 
under this steady fire of questioning ; and at Mary’s 
suggestion they made a hasty retreat, her lover fol- 
lowing her down into the shady recesses on the 
river’s brim. Here their troth was plighted and the 
future seemed to them a bright vista of untold 
happiness. 

❖ * * * * * * 

With Mary’s warm handclasp still thrilling his 
palm, with her first rapturous kiss of love resting 
fragrantly upon his lips, with new-found joy pul- 
sating in his blood and a light of happiness gleam- 
ing in his brown eyes, Lionel Spencer rode slowly 
away from Sunnyside, from the bright presence 
of his heart’s idol. Years were to pass ere he 
should re-enter those gates, which were now closed 
upon him — years which would bring 1 a saddened, 
far-away expression into his brown eyes, a light of 
hope unattained, of joys short lived. 

The events of years may be crowded into a few 
short moments; a single footprint on life’s sands 
changes the whole current of existence. A single 
upheaval of a sleeping volcano may, in the dark- 
ness of a single night, sweep over and obliterate 
all traces of a proud city, the growth of a hundred 
years; an ill-advised order hurl an army into the 
jaws of complete destruction; a single step carry 
us over a precipice and down, down for hundreds 
of feet into the chasm below, where we lay crushed 
and broken upon the rocks. Toss but a pebble into 
a brimming cup and it will overflow; a single 
match may light a conflagration which will sear 
and desolate many homes ere the flames are ex- 
tinguished. 


116 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

While Captain Spencer was basking in the light 
of Mary’s eyes at Sunnyside Sambo had hied him 
to Ashburton and had fallen into the corrupting 
clutches of his boon companions of the camp. The 
two-mile walk had set his lips “a-tingling” and his 
heels needed oiling ; so, when the guards were unob- 
servant he took the money proffered and soon in- 
vested it in “fire water/’ which he gave to the 
thirsty, waiting troopers. But detection followed, 
and when brought by the guard before the lieuten- 
ant for punishment, Sambo was sentenced to be 
immediately tied up by the thumbs for an hour 
on the public square as a warning to all others of 
his race, who were prone to violate camp rules. His 
eyes bulged out with fear and he trembled in every 
limb as he protested his innocence and begged for 
mercy. His prayers and protests were in vain, 
and at the muzzles of the guns in the hands of the 
provost guard he was marched over in front of the 
Colonnade Hotel. A large dry goods box was 
placed beneath the bending branches of one of the 
old oaks which shaded this ancient hostelry, and 
Sambo was made to mount it. A small rope was 
thrown over a limb of the tree and at the two ends 
were tied the wristsiand thumbs of this faithful old 
ex-slave, his arms being drawn upward to their 
full extent. For his shortcomings he was now, j!or 
an hour, to suffer this condign punishment, where 
all passers-by could view his disgrace. At first he 
became sullen ; but as the circulation of the blood 
began to decrease and the veins and arteries com- 
menced to swell, the shooting pains rackeJ him, 
and he cried out lustily for release, confessing his 
sins and promising never again to come near the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 117 

soldiers or to procure them drink. His loud out- 
cries, his pleadings fell on dulled ears, and the hour 
was passing by. 

Up the street came the lumbering stage coach 
loaded with the mail and passengers, and when it 
reached the hotel and the servant had opened the 
door at the curb a tall, well-formed, military-look- 
ing man stepped forth and stretched himself after 
his dusty ride. A long blonde beard shaded his 
features and over his neck rippled a profusion of 
fair hair. Upon his brow were deep lines of care, 
in his eyes a stern, sad light, a smouldering fire. In 
prison cell he had fretted out weary days and weeks 
and months. His temper, for-the time, was soured 
by the failure of his hopes, by the loss of his for- 
tune, by the scenes of desolation, which he saw by 
the roadside on every hand. He was typical of the 
sleeping volcano ; for in his deep-set frame lingered 
the latent powers which at a moment’s notice might 
be called into action by the stirring of subterranean 
forces. He was plainly, simply dressed, and his 
garb threw no light on his identity. When he first 
stepped forth from the cover of the coach, he 
glanced about him and in the instant surveyed the 
camp and town. His eye took in the view of the 
negro tied up by the thumbs ; and though Sambo’s 
back was toward him he recognized him at once as 
his old body-servant, his faithful follower for many 
years. ’Twas General Henry Preston, of the Con- 
federate Army, who now stood in the midst of his 
boyhood’s home town, over which floated the flag 
of the victor. His blood boiled, a tempest raged in 
his heart, and for the instant he became vicious. 

Sambo was in severe pain now, and began to beg 


118 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

for help, calling upon his God to save him from 
further torture. A helper was there, one who 
would free him without thought of result, without 
fear or heed of the consequence. 

With rapid, giant strides, Henry Preston hur- 
ried to the succor and relief of his old slave, and 
with a panther-like bound he sprang upon the box 
platform, where Sambo stood in the throes of his 
punishment. Drawing his pen knife quickly he 
severed the agonizing hempen cords, and Sambo 
was free — his prayer was answered. ? Twas the 
work of a moment. 

From the camp the provost-sergeant and his 
guard had witnessed the act of the tall, bearded 
stranger in civilian garb, and in double quick time 
they rushed out of their lines across the street to 
arrest the man who had so ignored and trampled 
under foot the supreme authority of the “military.” 
Quicker than pen can relate there was a serious 
rumpus on the street fronting the old “Colonnade,” 
and a greater breach between citizens and soldiery. 
Like a lion from the Balkan desert, aroused from 
his peaceful rest by sounds of attack, General Pres- 
ton awaited the coming of the provost guard. 
Quivering with rage, his muscles standing out like 
whipcords, he met their rapid advance. The ser- 
geant was a rough, well-schooled veteran of long 
service, who feared neither man nor devil, and 
halting his detail, he cried : 

“What do you mean by freeing that nigger from 
his just punishment ? You are apt to fill his shoes 
and be tied up by the thumbs to finish his sentence. 
You are my prisoner. Surrender and come with 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 119 

me to the camp at once. The lieutenant will fix 
your dose on short notice.” 

But the sergeant never dreamed of the powers 
of strength and raging fire which were veiled in 
that towering form. Nor did he know that ofttimes 
the most suave and cultured man could be roused 
to the viciousness of the tiger if taunted by an in- 
ferior, who exercised over him a temporary su- 
periority. As the last sentence passed his bearded 
lips, General Preston sprang towards him, and 
with a blow which would have felled an ox, he 
struck him full upon the jaw. The provost- 
sergeant fell sprawling in the dust, and there Lis 
burly form lay limp and lifeless. The sleeping 
volcano had now burst forth with full force. 
Grasping the sergeant’s gun, which had fallen 
from his relaxing clasp, the General, clubbing it, 
now swept down upon the two guards who stood 
thunderstruck and without a leader. 

Just at the moment Captain Spencer turned 
the corner a half block above, riding in at a slow 
canter from Sunnyside, his heart filled with the 
light of Mary Preston’s love, and echoing the- glad 
songs of the birds. In the instant his dream of 
love vanished, and stern duty presented itself 
adown the street. His eyes took in the scene as 
the blow felled his provost, and drawing his sabre 
and sending his spurs home, he charged impetu- 
ously upon the giant stranger. The blade was 
poised ready to execute a “front cut” upon the 
stalwart right arm ; but in the shock of man and 
beast against the dismounted foe, who interposed 
the sergeant’s gun to parry the sabre stroke, the 
flashing blade glanced, and its dulled edge slashed 


120 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the cheek of General Preston. The force of the 
cut was broken by the parry, but the skin was 
laid open on cheek and neck, and the crimson tide 
bespattered his raiment. Captain Spencer sud- 
denly reined in his horse, as he made the cut 
against his unknown and powerful opponent, and 
the steed reared far upon his haunches. Quick 
as a flash, and further enraged by the sight of the 
flowing blood from the stinging wound, General 
Preston grasped the stirrup, drawing from it the 
booted foot of the Federal officer, and with agile 
movement hurled him to the ground on the op- 
posite side. The horse ran away to the picket 
line, and the General stamped his heel upon the 
breast and face of his prostrate enemy with fero- 
cious malignity, stunning and lacerating him. 
7 Twas all the work of fleeting seconds, but from 
the camp came hurriedly the lieutenant with his 
hastily armed and formed troopers to seize the 
violent stranger; and from every near-by doorway 
came rushing armed citizens, many of whom 
recognized their former commander in the early 
days of war, the master of Sunnyside. The troop- 
ers and citizens glared at each other with malev- 
olence and hatred. The quick fires of passion 
and anger, which had lit the conflagration in the 
bleeding heart of Henry Preston, were spent. At 
his feet, stunned and bruised, lay both Captain 
Spencer and the sergeant. Eegret for his actions, 
humiliation over the results, filled him now to 
overflowing with sorrow. He surrendered peaceably 
to the lieutenant, and turning to his old friends 
and comrades in arms he besought them to quietly 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 121 

turn back to their homes and occupations, and for- 
get the broils in which he had plunged hastily. 

In the excitement which followed General Pres- 
ton’s arrest and incarceration in the guard tent, 
Sambo, who had witnessed the melee , escaped 
from the town and hurried out to Sunnyside to 
bear to them the sad news of the affray, which his 
shortcomings had precipitated. Over that house- 
hold rested no shadow before Sambo’s coming, and 
joyful preparations were going on for the master’s 
reception. He might be expected daily, hourly, 
and every heart was singing glad paeans. He had 
long suffered imprisonment, and his existence had 
been rayless, cheerless. Now he was free, and en 
route to the home of his fathers, to the scenes of 
his childhood, to the entwining arms of his loved 
ones. 

In the twilight came Sambo, whose tale was 
falteringly told to the family group, gathered on 
the veranda. From cloudless sky a storm had 
burst upon Sunnyside, and the bolt had stunned 
the household, so joyous the moment before. 

The colonel realized that love’s young dream 
for the captain and Mary had been rudely dis- 
pelled. He knew that in childhood Mary had 
crowned her loved father as the king of men, and 
that in her eyes he could do no wrong. Though 
she should go sorrowing to her grave for lost 
love and vanished hopes, she could never 
forgive the hand that left its scar upon her 
father’s cheek, either in days of war or peace. In 
this for the nonce he judged rightly; but time 
and tide obliterate many footprints upon life’s 
sands, and heal many a broken heartstring. As 


122 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Colonel Heatheote was ready to mount and ride 
away into the night, Mary came out to him. 

“Uncle Jack,” she whispered, “as you love me, 
never mention to my father the story of my sum- 
mer’s romance. The knight whom I crowned as 
my hero and lover, and to whom I gave to-day a 
tress of my hair to wear next his heart, has lifted 
his hand against my king. I can forgive him, 
for I love him; but I can never forget his act of 
disloyalty. Right, or wrong, I must not see him 
again. If he is badly hurt at my father’s hands, 
’twas his just meed. Bring me news of him secret- 
ly, for henceforth his name must never be men- 
tioned in our household. To-morrow I will write 
to him in farewell. Good-bye, uncle dear.” 

With sad eyes and turbulent heart, Mary sought 
her chamber, and throwing herself across her bed 
gave way to a torrent of bitter tears. Rousing 
herself at length, she bathed her swollen eyes, 
and seating herself at her escritoire she penned 
the following letter : 

“Sunnyside, July 25th, 1865. 
“Captain Spencer : — 

“Upon the banks of the Rappahannock, two of 
the goddesses of ancient mythology sit enthroned — 
Niobe and Mnemosyne. They typify my tears, and 
memories. This day has been one of sunshine and 
of storm. The castles, which we builded upon the 
sands, have already fallen. Only the fragments 
remain to be buffeted by wind and wave. Our 
paths diverge henceforth, and if we meet again it 
must be as strangers. The blade, with which I 
crowned you my loyal knight, has been dyed with 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 123 

the blood of my beloved father. Your hand has 
been lifted against the body of my king. Love’s 
flower bloomed but to be blighted. 

“Farewell ! May God forgive you, as I forgive. 

“Mary Preston. 
“To Captain Lionel Spencer, 

“In Camp at Ashburton, Va.” 

******* 

When Colonel Heatheote reached the camp at 
Ashburton on that July evening, he discovered 
that affairs were far worse even than Sambo had 
represented. Captain Spencer was lying in his 
room at the hotel, whither he was borne bleeding 
and unconscious after the fray, being as yet bliss- 
fully ignorant of the identity of his foe. General 
Preston had been marched to the guard tent, 
where for a time he was taunted, threatened and 
insulted by some of the men; until the return of 
Sergeant Murphy, who had been scouring the 
country roundabout for forage during the after- 
noon. 

That veteran promptly discovered that for the 
second time, his company had arrested the Con- 
federate general — and he made him as comfort- 
able as possible, and reported to Lieutenant 
Hickey, who was at the hotel attending to his 
captain. This young officer was loath to break 
the news; for he knew that it would cause deep 
and profound sorrow to Lionel Spencer. Colonel 
Heatheote held a private interview with his lieu- 
tenant in the hotel parlor, and an order was is- 
sued for the release of General Preston, which 
was put into effect immediately. 


124 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Securing a conveyance from the hostelry, and 
seated side by side, Jack Heathcote and Henry 
Preston are driven out to Sunnyside. After the 
storm comes the calm — after the darkness of the 
long night, the dawn of morning. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 125 


CHAPTER XIV. 

When Louis De Lacey rode through the chain of 
wearied Confederate sentinels, away from the 
tented field of Appomattox, the night before Lee's 
surrender, he recked not of his pathway. 

Whither would his footsteps lead? What paths, 
now veiled and unseen, would stretch out before 
him in coming years? Would he find balm in 
some distant Gilead, which would heal the sad 
wounds of his mind and heart ? 

Days passed slowly by, and a neutral “coaster,” 
plying to West Indian ports, bore him far away 
from the tented field of Appomattox, from the 
desolate shores of the “Old Dominion.” The sea 
voyage soothed and braced his sinking spirits, and 
when he sailed into the harbor of Havana, under 
the frowning guns of Morro Castle, over which 
floated the flag of Spain, he landed — seeking rest 
and oblivion from tumultuous memories. 

* * ❖ sfc sH 

While civil war was raging between the North 
and South, the allied powers of Great Britain, 
France and Spain sent a joint expedition to the 
neighboring republic of Mexico to demand and 
enforce indemnities for alleged losses and in- 
juries sustained by their respective subjects in that 
sunny land. Benito Juarez, formerly the chief jus- 


126 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

tice of the Supreme Court of Mexico, had, in 1858, 
claimed the legal succession to the presidency; 
and when defeated by Zuloago established himself 
at Vera Cruz as constitutional President. His 
government was acknowledged by the United 
States, and gathering together a large army of ad- 
herents he overthrew the forces of General Mira- 
mon, and marched triumphantly into the capital, 
seizing the reins of power in January, 1861. For 
more than two years, and until June, 1863, his 
wise and humane administration continued, and 
won for him the love and adoration of the Mex- 
ican people. During that time he completely 
segregated church and state, and succeeded in 
abolishing ecclesiastical tribunals. When the for- 
eign forces landed on Mexican shores, Juarez ef- 
fected a settlement with England and Spain, and 
their military forces were withdrawn. The French 
army declared war against the government and 
was urged on and assisted by the church party. 
Their arms were triumphant, and an hereditary 
monarchy was established. Maximilian, of Aus- 
tria, came with his beautiful Carlotta to occupy 
the palace at Chapultepec, and assume the crown 
of empire. But their reign was to be of shorf 
duration, and their star of empire was soon to go 
down in darkest night. Death would be meted 
out to Maximilian as the meed of his usurpation 
of an American throne, and Carlotta was destined 
to live on and on in rayless night, her brilliant 
mind to be forever clouded, her reason dethroned. 
As an exile from his native land, deposed of his 
power — Benito Jaurez and his adherents fled to 
Texas, and at El Paso del Norte awaited the time 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 127 

for retribution, gathering their forces for inva- 
sion. 

In the early days of 1866 , the French troops 
were deported from Mexico, through the inter- 
vention of the United States, and Juarez raised 
his standard, calling for followers. His call was 
answered by many a free lance from the South- 
ern States, and among them was — Louis De Lacey. 

His life in Havana, the Cuban capital, had 
been without incident, and here, in enforced 
quietude, he had lived for some months under the 
tyrant flag of Spain. As a boy, he had made an 
especial study of the Spanish idioms, and was 
deeply versed in the language, the history and 
romance of that land of tyranny and oppression. 
His heart bled for the woes of the Cubans, who 
were bowed and bent beneath their foreign yoke; 
and in his mind’s eye he compared the despolia- 
tion and oppression of these people to the con- 
dition of his native Southland, under Federal 
military occupation. When in Congress, in the 
Capitol at Washington, De Lacey had met Benito 
Juarez, the savior and protector of Mexican lib- 
erties, who was sojourning there for a few days, 
seeking recognition of 'his constitutional govern- 
ment at Vera Cruz. A warm attachment had, in 
their few meetings, sprung up between the son of 
Louisiana and the sage of Mexico — an attachment 
which was now to be broadened and more deeply 
welded. 

De Lacey had ever been opposed to the existence 
of a monarchical form of government in any sec- 
tion of the American continent, North, South or 
Central, and now he was ready to take down his 


128 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

rusting sword from the wall, and hasten to enroll 
himself under the standard of Benito Juarez in 
the cause of freedom, and the restoration of the 
republic. During his stay in Havana he had 
formed a large coterie of friends, and now he im- 
parted to them his own enthusiasm by his fiery 
eloquence. An expedition was fitted out secretly 
under the shadow of Morro’s frowning walls, and 
they sailed across the Gulf to the mouth of the 
Bio Grande. Landing at Bagdad, on the Mex- 
ican coast, below Matamoras, where a great vil- 
lage had sprung up during the civil war, they pro- 
ceeded along the isolated and barren frontier, and 
above Nuevo Laredo crossed over into Texas. 
When, in the early spring days of *66, the expedi- 
tion led by Louis De Lacey reached El Paso, on the 
upper waters of the Bio Grande, the standard of 
Juarez was already glinted by the rays of coming 
victories. Thousands flocked to his support, as he 
marched triumphantly onward toward the City 
of Mexico, and victory perched again and again 
upon his banners. 

In June, 1867, Benito Juarez re-entered the 
capital, and three days later Maximilian and his 
generals, Miramon and Mejia, were captured and 
shot, and the ex-President was once again in full 
possession and power as the head and chief of the 
re-established republic. The star of empire had 
quickly waned, and the Austrian archduke gave 
up his life for the few short months of reign. In 
many respects the characters of Juarez and De 
Lacey were alike, for both were jurists, statesmen, 
warriors and patriots. United now with heart and 
hand in the overthrow of a monarchy set up on 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 129 

Columbian shores, mutually admiring the re- 
spective scintillations of brilliant mind and heroic 
spirit, bowing both at the shrine of liberty, drink- 
ing together from victory’s cup over the frag- 
ments of a fallen throne — they were now drawn to- 
gether by close ties, which only the hand of death 
could sever. 

Louis De Lacey had been commissioned as a 
general, in this war against foreign usurpation, 
by the intrepid Juarez, and \aliantly, triumphant- 
ly, he led his forces onward over bloody fields 
against the Church and monarchical armies which 
sought to stay his progress. With victory came 
its fruits. Juarez re-established his government, 
and immediately began the labor of national re- 
construction. The now weak and impotent hand 
of Santa Anna sought to oppose him in his benefi- 
cent administration; but his attempted revolu- 
tion was quickly quelled, and the former dictator 
was banished from the “halls of the Montezumas” 
and became an exile at a foreign court. 

The President of the Mexican Republic found 
in Louis De Lacey the combined powers of the 
gallant soldier, the wise adviser, the unwavering 
patriot. He was a man without a country, for his 
nationality had gone down in eternity’s waters 
with the barque of the Confederacy, and he re- 
fused to acknowledge the flag of Federal Union. 
Now, at the request of Mexico’s chief executive, 
De Lacey sought citizenship in, and swore al- 
legiance to the new republic, which he had aided 
in re-establishing and founding upon a firm and 
lasting basis. He was appointed as Secretary of 
State and given that portfolio in the cabinet of 


130 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the Mexican President. By reason of his brilliant 
attainments, his versatility, his wide experience, 
his diplomacy, his acquired knowledge of the sen- 
timents of the people, he assisted his chief in har- 
monizing all warring factions, and securing the 
blessings which come with peace and liberty. The 
new nation became progressive, lawful, regener- 
ate, taking a proud position in the galaxy of fed- 
erations. As years rolled on, and the wheels of 
government revolved smoothly, bringing a tide of 
reform and material progress, De Lacey was filled 
with a longing to revisit his old home, to renew 
the associations of youth, to stand again amid the 
scenes of his childhood. 

In 1870 all of the Southern States had been re- 
admitted to the Union, and the flag of the Stripes 
and Stars floated peacefully over all the State 
capitols. 

In the early summer of *70, Louis De Lacey 
could no longer resist his heart appeals, and tak- 
ing a leave of absence, journeyed to Yera Cruz, 
from which port he sailed for his native city, New 
Orleans. He was received by the friends and 
comrades of yore as one resurrected from the 
dead, coming from the tomb of long absence back 
into the life and light of days departed. On 
every hand he was besought to iemain in the land 
of his birth, to again take up his abode among 
them. For some days he tarried in the halls of 
home, from which the lights had fled, where the 
garlands were withered and drooping. Then he 
journeyed on to Richmond, and in the bright 
moonlight wandered to the beautiful “city of the 
dead,” and stood beside the grass-grown mound 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 131 

where reposed his Edyth — gone from the earth for- 
ever. With bowed head he knelt beside her grave 
and kissed the name upon the white stone — the 
name of Edyth, who was his joy, his life, his light, 
his hope. Without her presence to beautify and 
enrich his days, there could never be a moment of 
perfect happiness, and he must live on until his 
summons should come and he could join her on 
the other shore. Ear into the night he sat alone 
beside her silent, moonlit grave, and reviewed 
the days of long ago, when in the flush of man- 
hood he met and loved, and wooed and won the 
priceless jewel, now sleeping sweetly in her casket 
of earth. 

Ah! How he had loved her, and now how 
sweet were the memories of their brief wedded 
life. A link from their past still hound him to 
earth — his boy, his golden-haired little Harold, 
in whose face were preserved the lineaments of his 
lost mother. Since his earliest years the father 
had not gazed upon his child. To the tender arms 
of Geraldine Preston he had ^trusted his darling 
boy, and by the bier of the dead mother she had 
promised to shield and cherish him as her own, 
until the cruel war was over, and' he had reached 
maturer years. Well had she executed her prom- 
ise and trust. With heavy heart and faltering 
step he turned away from the tomb of his dead, 
wending his way back to his< totel, intent on the 
morrow to visit the ancestral home of General 
Preston, at Sunnyside, on the banks of the Rappa- 
hannock. 

******* 

Five years had passed since the return of the 


132 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

master from the prison at Fortress Monroe. These 
years had caused Sunnyside to bloom again as of 
old, and to be restored to its old-time beauty and 
splendor. Few changes marked the brows of 
either the general or his wife Geraldine. Time 
had dealt lightly with them. Mary had grown 
more queenly, more reserved than in the first 
years of womanhood, and over her sunny face 
rested at times a shadow, as if caused by a painful 
memory. Into her blue eyes would creep a sad, 
wistful light, which only beautified the sweet ex- 
pression of her face. 

From childhood she had a penchant for draw- 
ing, and even in her tender years with pencil and 
slate she could accurately sketch the scenes of 
garrison life. She had great genius, and in the 
last three years, assisted by an excellent master, 
had acquired a soft touch, an increased perfection 
in art. Her parents had agreed that she could, 
in the following year, study in the schools of 
Europe, and they were going to accompany her 
abroad for a twelvemonth. Many admirers had 
bowed at her shrine, hut she gave one and all the 
same answer, that “she was wedded to her home 
and art, and would form no other alliance, nor 
give it thought for years to come.” Her love for 
Lionel Spencer was safely locked within the re- 
cesses of her pure heart, and there on lasting 
tablets would it ever be engraven. She had dis- 
missed him from her presence, but never would 
he be absent from her thoughts. Would they ever 
in this wide, wide world, meet again; and as 
strangers look coldly upon each other, with lips 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 133 

sealed by painful recollections of a summer’s day 
in “auld lang syne” ? 

Her constant companion and devoted page was 
young Harold De Lacey, who had grown up to 
nearly ten years of age under the watchful eyes 
of those who loved him, and had sought to banish 
from his mind the grievous childish sorrows over 
his mother’s loss. Tall for his age, fair, agile 
and strong, and with precocious development of 
mind and physique, he had been reared at Sunny- 
side, and was fully as dear to the family as if he 
had been a son and brother. 

As the sun of summer was sinking behind the 
wooded hills in the west, a carriage rolled within 
the gates of this Southern home, and a tall, (lark, 
imperious man stepped forth from its cover. It 
was Louis De Lacey’s first visit to Sunnyside, and 
its hospitalities were showered upon him with lav- 
ish hand. He was met at the open doorway with 
warm hand-clasps, and his strong arms soon en- 
circled his boy. That golden-crowned head rested 
again, after all these* years, against his loved 
father’s breast, while his face imaged' the features 
of the dead. 

* * * * * * * 

Harold De Lacey, as a small boy, had -listened 
to many a tale of warfare and deed of daring, as 
General Preston and Colonel 'Heathcote had dis- 
cussed the days of rebellion, and fought over their 
battles in friendly converse. Yearly the Heath- 
cotes had come to Sunnyside to spend a few weeks 
of summer, and Harold had always looked hope- 
fully, longingly forward to their visit. Roi and 
Florence were his guests, and they had many a 


134 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

romp and childish play upon the lawn, in the 
grand orchard or down upon the shaded, grassy 
banks of the river. Harry and Roi had imbibed 
the martial spirit t*. the age, and their elders had 
taught them the rudiments of sword practice, so 
that with toy blades they had many a contest, and 
as warriors bold they walked post along the Rap- 
pahannock, with miniature guns upon their 
shoulders, guarding the camp, represented by a 
lawn tent in which Florence held court with hen 
dolls. When the regular army was reorganized 
after the war, Colonel Heathcote had been as- 
signed as a lieutenant-colonel of the Fifteenth 
Cavalry, and now awaited his “eagles” in the slow 
course of promotion. He was given a station on 
the far frontier, out among the Indian reserva- 
tions, and Roi, with his two years of seniority 
over Harold, brought to him many a tale of border 
foray. Thus, at an early age, Harold De Lacey 
had resolved that he would be u soldier, and offer 
his sword to the new nation, when he reached man- 
hood’s years. His studies were largely along these 
lines, for he was far advanced. With book in 
hand he would stroll down into the shaded nooks 
on the river; and store his precocious mind witli 
the histories of biblical and ancient warfare, the 
days of the Crusades, the wars of Europe. Deeply 
versed he became in the career of his principal 
military hero — Napoleon, the “petit corporal” of 
France. A thousand questions had he asked of 
General Preston, relative to the Mexican and 
Civil War, and about his father’s gallant military 
record on the staff of the Confederate leader — 
General Robert E. Lee — and' with Juarez in “the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 135 

land of the cactus.” From that loved father Har- 
old had received tender letters as he grew up, and 
General Preston had been informed of the service 
on foreign soil, which had adopted him as a loyal, 
honored son. 

Now Louis De Lacey had returned to Vir- 
ginia’s shores. His sorrowful memories were 
softened, and hope whispered of brighter days yet 
remaining to him. It was arranged that Harold 
should return with him for a time to his adopted 
land of Mexico. Days had passed swiftly at Sun- 
nyside, and the hour of preparation came for de- 
parture. A single night remained ere farewells 
would be spoken. There was a quiet group on the 
piazza, looking forth upon the beauties of the 
night. The heart of Louis De Lacey was stirred 
to its very depths. Here, in this Southland home, 
his boy had been tenderly reared, and encom- 
passed by love and fond affection. Turning to 
General Preston and Geraldine and Mary, he 
spoke from his heart’s fulness. 

“In a strange clime I have found a safe harbor 
from the ills of existence, and in my hands hold 
the helm of the ‘ship of state.’ Wealth, honors 
and the love of a grateful republic, have been 
heaped upon me in rich profusion. Is there any- 
thing in my treasure trove that I can bestow upon 
you which will contribute to your comfort, or 
happiness, and in a small degree repay you for the 
love you have showered upon my boy?” 

With one voice, with one mind, they begged 
him to feel under no obligation ; for Harold him- 
self had been a comfort, a great happiness to them, 
through all the passing years. But to Geraldine 


136 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

now came a thought of the goodness of her brother 
Jack, and his sweet-natured wife. Years ago, in 
Mexico, Juanita’s father, Ramon Galindo, had 
been possessed of rich estates, which Santa Anna, 
the bloody dictator, had confiscated. They were 
Juanita’s justly, by right of inheritance, and 
under the humane administration of J uarez, 
through the intercession of Louis De Lacey, per- 
haps these former possessions might be restored. 

So she related all the facts known to her of the 
Mexican patriot, and told him the sweet story of 
Juanita, of her father’s execution, her entry into 
the sisterhood, her love for Jack, their marriage 
and long years of wedded joys. 

"If,” she said, “upon your return to Mexico 
City, you will investigate the ancient records, you 
will find that J uanita’s title extends back for more 
than two centuries. Her estates should be granted 
her in all justice, and if you will use your in- 
fluence with the Mexican government and cause 
a restoration of all, or part of her legal posses- 
sions, of which she was so cruelly deprived, then 
you may feel that you have repaid, a hundredfold, 
any act of ours,” 

Gladly Louis De Lacey promised to make this 
his first duty upon his return to Mexico, and he 
assured them of early action, almost being aide 
to guarantee a full consummation of Geraldine’s 
wishes. Juarez, the President, had been greatly 
favored by the United States, and now he could 
perform a graceful act in recognizing the claims 
of the wife of a gallant Federal officer to ancient 
family rights and estates, and by recommending 
to the Mexican Congress a full restitution. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 137 

On the morrow Louis De Lacey and Harold 
uttered their heartfelt farewells, and together, 
father and son, went forth from the hospitable 
gates, to sail for a foreign shore to take up their 
burdens of life in a far-away tropical land. 


138 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The City of Mexico is rich in ancient and 
legendary lore. Centuries before the coming of 
Cortez, with his Spanish host of invaders, the 
Aztecs had builded here a vast pueblo of man- 
sions and temples in which they worshipped 
strange gods. The “old world” was to this ancient 
people a myth; yet they were far advanced in 
science, art and architecture. There were gardens 
and palaces, and the Montezumas held sway over 
a densely populated country. Then came Spanish 
invasion and oppressive rule, until after many 
generations the new and intermingled races rose 
up in their might and threw off the yoke of Spain, 
forming a republic, which for j^ears was in the 
throes of revolution. Now, in 1870, the bright 
sun rose and set upon a peaceful government, 
under a wise, humane and progressive administra- 
tion, and Louis De Lacey was at the helm to guide 
and direct. After Harold had viewed all points of 
interest, wandering through the quaint streets, 
about the plazas , through the beautiful tropical 
gardens, the public buildings of state, the halls 
of Congress, filling his young mind with the 
legends of ancient times, he was surfeited with 
sight-seeing and was entered as a student at the 
“Casa de Education.” At this house of learn- 
ing he applied himself vigorously to study. He 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 139 

made rapid progress, for his mind for a child 
was brilliant, receptive, retentive, and few boys 
at sixteen are as far advanced as was this pre- 
cocious youth at ten years of age. His deskmate 
was Vidal Martinez, whose father had been a 
valiant general under the standard of Juarez, and 
was now in his cabinet as Secretary of War. A 
warm, boyish friendship sprang up between these 
two students, and ties were welded which were to 
be perpetuated through life. About the same age, 
with congenial temperaments, both motherless, 
their fathers bound by the ties of official and per- 
sonal friendship, these boys side by side delved 
for pearls of knowledge. Their stars of destiny 
were in future years to meet in perihelion in the 
orbit near the same sun, and to be clouded equally 
by weeping, lowering skies. In this school both 
English and Spanish were taught, and at the end 
of two years Harold and Vidal could converse 
fluently in either tongue. In the spring of 1872 
the heart of Harold sang with joy, for Colonel 
Heathcote, accompanied by Juanita, with Roi and 
Florence, journeyed to the City of Mexico — and 
here in her native land the noble Juarez restored 
to Juanita all of the rich estates which long ago 
had been wrested from her father. Justice had 
been done at last, and there were gala days. 

After long years, Juanita stood in the palatial 
home of her childhood, in the beautiful halls to 
which her girl mother had been brought as a 
lovely, luminous-eyed bride. Far out on the 
Mexican frontier, too, she now possessed vast 
tracts of land in her own right and a fourth in- 
terest in the “Minas Viejas,” old silver mines 


140 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

near Villaldama, which the Spaniards had worked 
more than two centuries before. Around her,, 
Juanita looked for the footprints of her child- 
hood and youth. While her children and Harold 
were wandering through the gardens of her home, 
she and Jack drove about the city — to his old 
camp under the walls of the “Hospicio de Santa 
Maria/ 5 which had sheltered her for a time and 
where she had nursed her wounded soldier boy 
back to life and given him her undying love, out 
to the “Gate of San Cosme/ 5 through which they 
had passed long, long ago. They were young 
again, and Juanita’s hand stole softly into that 
of her lover, then, now and forever. 

On the 18th day of July, 1872, Benito Juarez, 
full of years and honors, laid him down in his last 
long, unending siesta. A nation wept over his 
bier, a loving people long mourned his death. 
Throughout the land homes were draped with the 
black insignia of outward grief, and darkness fell 
upon the sun-kissed shores. Louis De Lacey had 
been granted landed estates, and accepted citizen- 
ship in the republic ; but now, after the demise of 
his chief, he turned longingly to the land of his 
birth. 

“He who has truly loved never forgets , 

But as truly loves on to the close ; 

As the sunflower turns on its God, when he sets. 
The same face which' it turned when he rose” 

Louisiana, his native State, held out its arms 
toward him, bidding him come. The Southland 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 141 

was fast reviving from the scorchings of Mars. He 
would at last return and bow to the protecting, 
shielding folds of the Stars and Stripes. So home- 
ward he turned his footsteps, and with Harold 
landed on his native soil, and was received like 
the returning prodigal of old. He was now 
possessed of wealth, and with lavish hand he re- 
stored his city home in New Orleans to its 
grandeur of ante-bellum days, and gathered round 
him the choice spirits of ye olden time. Out on 
the Bayou Le Fourche was his sugar plantation, 
with its broad, level acres, now grown up in rank 
vegetation, awaiting the hand of the plowman, the 
builder and repairer. It would take many seasons 
to restore its pristine state, but he set laborers to 
their tasks to bring order out of chaos. Again 
he opened his law office in the Crescent City, hav- 
ing been “reconstructed,” and launched out upon 
the waters with firm heart, with steady hand, sure 
of reaching the goal of his youth. 

“Time knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, 
And night's deep darkness has no chain. 

To hind its rushing pinion ” 

The years speed on, and the child becomes “the 
father of the man.” Youth takes rapid flight 
and coming age adds its silver thread. The sum- 
mer skies take on the sombre hues of autumn, 
and flowers wither, the leaves are scattered broad- 
cast, wintry winds, sweep over vale and hillside. 

On a September’s morning in 1875, a speeding 
train bore to Emory and Henry College, Virginia, 
two bright-faced boys — the one fair-haired, blue- 


142 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

eyed, strong of limb; the other, with the features 
and vivacity of the Castilian, the olive skin and 
lnminons orbs of the vegas of the Cordilleras. 

Louis De Lacey had sent his only son Harold, 
and with him came Vidal Martinez from his far 
tropical home, to be educated in science, art and 
literature, the schools of the United States being 
superior to those of his native land. So, on this 
September’s day, these two boys reached Emory’s 
walls and matriculated as students, to enter upon 
the course of study prescribed by the curriculum, 
to delve into the font of knowledge. Harold was 
far advanced for his years, and entered the sopho- 
more class, having successfully passed an examina- 
tion on the branches taught in the freshman year. 
He was so tall of stature, so bright of mind, that 
’twas difficult for the president to realize that he 
was less than fifteen years of age, and could pos- 
sibly finish the four years’ course before he should 
be eighteen. 

Here amid the forest-crowned hills of Virginia, 
his birthland and that of his dead mother, Harold 
was to throw aside the last vestige of boyishness, 
and lay the foundation stones of futurity. For 
the first time he was absent from the protecting 
care of those who had fostered his childhood and 
guided his footsteps aright; or from under the 
watchful eye of his loved father, who had in late 
years been his mentor. With Vidal Martinez as 
his roommate in one of the dormitories, he began 
his studies, forming but few friendships, few boy- 
ish ties. While opposed by his father in his desire 
to enter West Point, after a course at college, there 
had not been a positive denial, and this was the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 143 

goal for which he strove quietly, yet persistently. 
Letters had at intervals reached him from his old 
playmate, Roi Heatheote, now a bronzed, hand- 
some youth in his seventeenth year, far out upon 
the arid plains of Arizona, where Colonel Heath- 
cote was stationed with his regiment, the Fifteenth 
Cavalry, holding the Apaches in check on the San 
Carlos Reservation. There were many skirmishes, 
many days of campaigning, and Roi often rode by 
his father’s side when the regiment took the field 
in pursuit of the red devils, who always left in 
their wake a trail of rapine and fiendish bloodshed. 

These letters from Roi caused the military spark 
to blaze upon his heart’s altar, and his crowning 
ambition was to be a cavalry officer — to follow the 
call of trumpet note, to hear the clash of sabre, the 
thunder of steel-shod hoof in spirited charge. The 
life of a boy at college is, as a rule, uneventful ; and 
the first year of the routine of study passed rapid- 
ly to Harold De Lacey and Vida Martinez. 

From Sunnyside had come a pressing invita- 
tion to Harold to spend his summer days of vaca- 
tion with them in his old home on the Rappahan- 
nock, and join them in a two weeks’ trip to Phila- 
delphia to view the Centennial Exhibition, with its 
wonderful display of old world treasures and the 
resources of the new. Six years had been num- 
bered with “the ashes of the past” since the boy 
had tearfully bidden them adieu and gone with his 
father to the sunny land of Mexico. In that. time 
the name of Mary Preston had become famous 
throughout the Union and in the courts of Europe, 
wherever art was known and loved. With inherent 
genius and talent developed by the masters of for- 


144 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

eign lands, she had reached fame’s pinnacle as a 
miniature painter. Lightly she wore her honors, 
her heart wedded to her art — and lingering mem- 
ories of a summer’s day long past. Far out on 
the Gila River, scouting with his troops over the 
arid, sun-scorched plains, and the rough slopes of 
the Black Mesa — a sad, wistful light glowing in 
his pensive brown eyes, Captain Lionel Spencer 
served his flag. Upon the reorganization of the 
regular army in ’66, he was offered a commission 
as second lieutenant of cavalry and accepted the 
appointment, bearing to frontier posts, in the dis- 
tant West, a sorrowing heart, which none of the 
garrison belles could cheer. Wrapped in long- 
faded silk and deep in the recesses of his packing 
case, reposed a tear-stained letter, a tress of 
golden hair, a few faded floral petals, and little 
feminine notes to which still clung “the scent of 
the roses.” 

In the silent watches of the night in garrison or 
bivouac, sweet memories would steal o’er his senses 
and his thoughts would wander far away to Sunny- 
side, to summer days on the Rappahannock. For 
eleven, years had Captain Lionel Spencer worn the 
“blue and buff.” Well had he won his promotion 
and his spurs on far Western plains in the regular 
service, and both officers and men respected and 
admired his bravery and dash. A charm rested 
upon his sabre, ’twas said; for when arrows and 
leaden bullets flew thick and fast in skirmishes 
with the painted warriors of the desert, and many 
fell wounded and maimed, Lionel Spencer gal- 
loped on at the head of his troopers, urging them 
into the thickest of the fray, bidding them follow 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 145 

where he led — and was ever unscathed. Colonel 
Heathcote had been true to his promise, and had 
never mentioned the name of Captain Spencer in 
the household at Sunnjside, and Mary Preston 
had heard no news of him, except from a para- 
graph found in a Washington paper years before, 
that told her he had accepted a commission as 
subaltern of cavalry in a regiment then serving in 
the South. She never knew that he was eating his 
heart out in the wilds of the Gila, recklessly en- 
dangering his life and health, his head bowed still 
in grief over his love for her, and his loss. 

Now, in the June days, Harold De Lacey, fresh 
from his first collegiate year at Emory, returned 
to the home on the Rappahannock, and was wel- 
comed with loving arms. In years a boy, in 
stature a man ; with the incipient hirsute insignia 
upon his lip of early maturity, his heart pure and 
undefiled as yet by contact with vice or dissipa- 
tion, his bearing indicated to the household the 
swift flight of years, since he had left their roof 
as a child. 

* ***** * 

During the vacation days, and while the Cen- 
tennial of the Declaration of Independence was be- 
ing celebrated in the Quaker City by vast throngs 
of sight-seers, the news was flashed eastward over 
the wires that on the Little Big Horn River, in the 
far hunting grounds of the Sioux, General George 
A. Custer, with his whole division, had been mas- 
sacred by Sitting Bull and his wily warriors. The 
nation was bowed in grief, and hundreds of happy 
homes were plunged in deepest woe. Recklessly 
the “Yellow-haired Chief,” as Custer was called 


146 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

by the Sioux, had advanced into the Indian strong- 
hold, and all perished on that fateful day — a day 
never to be forgotten in the annals of Western war- 
fare. 

Mary Preston, sitting at her hotel, when she had 
read the first accounts of the massacre, under 
flaming headlines in the “extras,” was dry-eyed, 
but with throbbing heart and burning brain — 
wondering if the lover of her youth had been with 
the ill-fated' Seventh Horse on that bloody field, 
to sell his life dearly, to be at last killed, his body 
maimed and mutilated by tomahawk and scalping 
knife. The accounts were meager, and few names 
of officers were mentioned. She did not know 
with what regiment he was serving, and her wo- 
manly breast was stirred to its depths, lest he be 
among the fallen. Was he now lying cold in death, 
his sightless eyes turned up to the stars glittering 
in the sky which bent above the Big Horn ? Had 
he forgotten the Southern maid who in “Auld lang 
syne” had crowned him with her love, and who yet 
loved him, despite his dismissal from her presence ? 
Her thoughts burned her brain, seared her very 
being, and, unobserved, she hurried out to a tele- 
graph office, and with trembling hand penned a 
message to the War Department at Washington 
asking for news of Lionel Spencer, an officer of 
cavalry. In an hour her answer came from tho 
adjutant general’s office informing her “that Cap- 
tain Spencer was with his troop at Camp Grant, 
in Arizona.” The excitement of the hour, between 
her two emotions of abject grief and untold joy, 
unnerved her, and every object in her room seemed 
to swim round and round, her brain to reel like a 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 147 

tempest-tossed bark. The light of day fled, and 
darkness swept over her, as she fell in a deep 
swoon, where a few minutes later her parents 
found her, the open telegram clutched tightly in 
her slender hand. They hurriedly summoned a 
physician and chafed her hands and rounded 
arms, endeavoring to resuscitate her, and in so 
doing General Preston’s eyes rested upon the 
wording of the telegram. For the first time he 
learned of Mary’s summer romance, and his ques- 
tioning eyes met those of his wife, Geraldine. 
When the medical man had come and used his art, 
and Mary’s blue eyes opened in consciousness 
upon the anxious faces of her parents bending 
over her, there was a rush of crimson to her cheeks 
and she quickly turned her face away from their 
searching gaze. She was still faint, and the doctor 
gave a powerful cordial, and left them to follow 
his directions. In their own chamber then, 
Geraldine related the tale of love and farewell in 
the long ago, and Henry Preston learned why 
Mary had banished all suitors for her hand, and 
become wedded to home and art, dismissing the 
lover whose sabre had scarred his cheek. 

Days after, when the Prestons had journeyed 
homeward from the Quaker City, the post brought 
to a distant Arizona station a letter from an at- 
tache of the A. G. 0., inclosing the telegram re- 
ceived there, signed, “Mary Preston,” advising 
Captain Spencer that it would be well for him to 
let his lady friends know of his station and where- 
abouts, especially the beautiful and far-famed 
Southern artist. ‘ For the first time in many years 
a faint spark of hope glowed in the troubled breast 


148 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

of Lionel Spencer, and he guessed, from the date 
of the telegram, the reason of her inquiry. She 
was still Mary Preston then, and had not bestowed 
her heart and hand upon some favored suitor. 
Would she ever relent and recall her dismissal? 
Have time and tide softened his act in raising his 
hand against the body of her king? Is there yet 
balm in Gilead for his bruised and bleeding heart ? 

The summer days passed all too fleeting to Har- 
old De Lacey, and he had sought out every nook 
and corner at Sunnyside dear to him in childhood, 
dearer to him now by reason of long absence. Old 
Aunt Caroline’s aged eyes had sprakled with de- 
light when “Mars Harry” had visited her at her 
white-washed cabin, and her still strong arms had 
given him a bear’s hug, which he did not resent. 
Were her visions ever to come true, which in 
dreams flitted through her mind, as she watched 
over his childish footsteps? 

Little did Harold think, at this period of his 
boyhood, that in years to come he was to serve in 
garrison in the land of the Dakotas, and his own 
bay charger “Duke” be stalled in the same box 
that was built for “Comanche” — sole equine relic 
of the Custer massacre, and the treasured mascot 
of the “Unlucky Seventh.” Nor did he dream 
that his regiment, together with Sioux Indian 
police, would trail to earth old Sitting Bull, and 
send him to the “happy hunting grounds of his 
fathers,” nor that in ’90 and ’91 — the far distant 
future — he would himself bear arms against the 
Sioux in the long campaign on the White River, 
Clay Creek and around Pine Ridge Agency, in 
“the war of the ghost dance.” When September 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 149 

days again rolled round, Harold prepared for his 
return to college, and before his departure from 
Sunnyside Mary Preston presented him with a 
miniature picture on an ivory tablet, representing 
a scene of the long ago — an exact reproduction of 
“the surrender of the blue to the gray,” when 
Lionel Spencer tendered to her his sword, and 
begged her to make him her prisoner forever and 
aye. The half-latticed veranda, overrun with 
eglantine and honeysuckle, formed the back- 
ground — beyond was the blue sky, the flowing 
river. The features of both Mary and Captain 
Spencer were perfect, and the picture was one of 
her best works of art. To Harold the miniature 
was like a revelation from the past, and 
dimly his memory wandered far backward to his 
early childhood and brought to view a reminiscence 
of a young Federal officer, who came often to 
Sunnyside years ago, so long that the memory was 
like a clinging dream. 

This beautiful memento Harold promised to 
cherish to his dying day, and to bear it ever with 
him on land and sea. Back then he turned to the 
walls of Emory, to begin his junior year and strive 
for honors. 


150 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

Familiar faces greeted Harold De Lacey when 
he returnd from his vacation, and his chum, Vidal 
Martinez, was there to grasp his hand. With re- 
newed energy and lofty ambition, he again set 
forth toward his goal. The autumn, winter and 
spring of the scholastic year of '77 and ? 78 passed 
away, and once again came the bright, sunshiny 
days of June. Harold De Lacey had bent every 
energy, every fibre of his being to the accomplish- 
ment of the end he sought — the valedictory, the 
prize awarded to the student who in his senior year 
attains the highest percentage in all the pre- 
scribed studies. In this hotly contested race he 
had outstripped his fellows, and reached the goal, 
to be crowned with the laurel wreath of victory. 
Proud of his achievement, envied by his competi- 
tors, this boy of seventeen wielded facile pen, and 
prepared his address of farewell. The throngs 
gathered from far and near, under the vast awn- 
ing pitched upon the campus for the closing exer- 
cises of commencement, diplomas were awarded — 
and Harold De Lacey rose before the large audi- 
ence to deliver the valedictory. Before him was a 
vast sea of faces, and among them his eyes rested 
upon the features of his father and of Mary Pres- 
ton — both of whom had come to Emory to witness 
the proud triumphs of this fair-haired and now 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 151 

stalwart youth, who had won the honors of his 
class. With the inherited brilliancy of his father, 
with a natural grace of poise and gesture, his voice 
charmed and thrilled. 

In closing his address, he said: “How lasting 
shall be our footprints on the sands of life’s broad 
arena ? To-day, the first goal has been reached on 
the highway of success, won by assiduous and per- 
sistent effort. To-day, armed with our coveted 
parchments, we are drifting apart, bidding fare- 
well to Emory’s walls — our alma mater — to friend- 
ships long cherished, to bright scenes, familiar 
forms, routines long observed. No longer will the 
peals of yonder bell call us to chapel or to lecture 
room. No longer will the midnight lamp throw its 
rays over the bent figure of the Emory student 
conning the pages of his text books. Hand will 
clasp hand, farewells be spoken, and our paths will 
diverge. Behind us we will leave the footprints of 
earnest effort, diligent pursuit and noble aspira- 
tion — before us stretch out the dim vistas of 
futurity, veiled in shadows. Whither shall our 
footsteps lead?” 

With a few eloquent and touching words of fare- 
well to professors and schoolmates, Harold closed 
his address, and many marvelled at the talents of 
the boy, predicting for him a brilliant future. 

* ***** * 

The member of Congress from the New Orleans 
District had ordered a competitive examination 
for the cadet appointment at West Point to fill a 
sudden vacancy — and over at Biloxi, where the 
De Laceys were spending the heated term, the 
father and son were seated on the cool veranda, 


S 52 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

discussing the problem of Harold’s future. The hoy 
was pleading to enter the lists and strive for 
cadet honors, now that the time had come when 
his pathway in life must be chosen. 

“Papa,” he said, “from my earliest years on the 
Kappahannock, my sole ambition has been to be a 
soldier, to follow the trumpet note, and no other 
career could bring me happiness or contentment. 
The old issues of the Civil War have been for- 
gotten, the bloody chasm bridged, and my greatest 
desire is to enter the Military Academy at West 
Point and serve the flag of my country. Please 
let me have my way, papa; my heart is set upon 
it.” 

For a time Louis De Lacey sat buried in deep 
thought, the trooping shadows of the past years of 
war passing in panoramic review before his mind. 
His voice had been lifted again and again in de- 
nunciation of the abolitionists and restrictionists, 
and advocated the trial of arms whicii was so dis- 
astrous to his Southern land. He had refused to 
surrender, with his chief, and sought foreign 
shores, bearing in his breast a deen-seated hatred 
of the Stars and Stripes. But time had softened 
his malice, chastened his heart, and after long ab- 
sence he had returned and bowed his head in sup- 
pliance to the banner now proudly floating over 
land and sea — become one of the supporting pillars 
of the Union. Watching with pride the unfolding 
of Harold’s brilliant mind, proud of his attain- 
ments, prouder of the class honors he had won at 
so early an age — he had builded up hopes that the 
boy would enter upon the study of law, and soon 
earn victories in the profession, become a wise 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 153 

statesman, a brilliant diplomat. Now he found 
that his hopes were builded upon the sands. 

“My boy,” he said at length, “your futureffirings 
to me a difficult problem. In civil pursuits you 
have magnificent prospects, may attain lofty 
heights, and you can be your own master, leading 
your inferiors in the race for honors. Yet your 
mind and heart seem fixed upon the army career, 
where discipline is severe and promotions slow. 
If you succeed in passing through the fiery ordeal 
of stringent rules and regulations at West Point, 
and obtain a commission in the cavalry, which is 
your penchant, you must possibly serve on the 
frontier, far from the pleasant and luxurious en- 
vironments of your past life. Your years will be 
wasted on the plains, and you must become ancient 
and grizzled to attain high rank. Even then, there 
will be bickerings and strife among your subordi- 
nates and anxiety will arise among them lest you 
bear a charmed life — and fail to make a vacancy 
for the next to fill. Is this picture of the army of- 
ficer's existence strong enough to take away the 
glamour which rests upon it in your imagination ?” 

Harold's mind had long been made up, and this* 
gloomy picture of army life did not weaken his 
desire, nor lessen his determination to be an officer 
of cavalry. He was self-willed and earnest, and 
even his loved father could not control his re- 
bellious spirit when his heart was bent on a certain 
aim and end. Now he replied, with a flashing 
light of earnestness in his blue eyes : 

“Let me try it, papa, and if, after the eight years 
of compulsory service, I can view the career as 
it appears to you, I will resign and strive for civil 


154 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

honors. I will then only be twenty-five, just at the 
right age to enter the world's arena. The ex- 
perience and military training will not unfit me 
for other pursuits.” 

Louis De Lacey, with his heart full of love for 
his motherless boy, was anxious to gratify his every 
wish, to foster his ambitions — yet he knew his 
proud, unyielding spirit, and feared that the harsh 
discipline at the Point and on the line and staff 
would be more than Harold could brook, and that 
he would be launching his barque on stormy 
waters. Against his reason then, he yielded to 
the pleading voice of his only boy; for he could 
deny him nothing. So, with happy heart and 
glorious anticipations, Harold went up to the city,' 
in the sweltering days of August to enter the com- 
petitive race for the cadet appointment. There 
were three other youngsters in the contest; but 
when they found that the young valedictorian at 
“Emory and Henry” had entered the lists against 
them, they by agreement precipitately retired, leav- 
ing him alone in the field. The son of the gallant 
Southerner, Louis De Lacey — the silver-tongued 
statesman of Louisiana — then hied him northward, 
to pass his “preliminary,” which he did with 
“colors flying,” to be afterward assigned to the 
corps as a young scion of Mars. 

******* 

As the August days were just drawing to a 
close, the battalion of four companies were tented 
out among the trees, where from June until Sep- 
tember these “youthful Alexanders in gray” enjoy 
the discomforts of camp life, which gives them a 
vague, dim idea of tenting on the plains. Spread 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 15 S 

out before Harold were the scenes which were to 
become familiar to him as the days passed on, and 
to be recalled long years after, when a bronzed and 
bearded trooper in the far West. Coming up from 
the steamer landing, his eyes fell upon the riding 
school, where he was to show his prowess as a dar- 
ing rider, and perform feats of horsemanship, 
which he had acquired in childhood at Sunnyside 
and been taught by young Mexican cavaliers in the 
tropics. 

Fronting the Hudson, stands Gran. Hall, where 
is hung a magnificent collection of portraits of 
famed American soldiers. Grouped about tl j 
quadrangle rise the Hospital and AdMinistration 
Buildings, the Greek Chapel, the Academy itself — 
and beyond, the plain with its level acres, the 
campus and parade, the canvas covered field pieces. 
Towering over all, that “castellated structure of 
Tudor architecture,” in which for nine months 
the cadet battalion is quartered, .and from whose 
tower one can look down upon the grassy parapet 
of Fort Clinton, or the shady “Flirtation Walk,” 
in which many a feminine ear has listened to tales 
of love and hope. 

Few cadets were ever better equipped, mentally 
and physically, for the duties of the Academy 
than Harold De Lacey — few more prone to fall bv 
the wayside in infractions of severe discipline and 
in chafing against the inflexible restraints. From 
a child he had known no curb, had been given full 
rein, and was high-strung, self-willed — traits of 
character which surely bring trials and tribula- 
tions to the embryonic soldier at the Point. Thus 
equipped he entered upon his duties and the weeks 


158 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

sped by. While displaying brilliancy in his 
“plebe” year, and diligence in his studies, winning 
the admiration of his instructors — lie was several 
times “reported” and received severe reprimands, 
which chafed and galled, and deeply soured his 
temper. In fencing, riding and field exercises he 
proved an apt scholar ; but he wore his uniform too 
proudly, bore himself too grandly, said a quartette 
of roisterers, and — “the reduction of the plebe to 
his proper level of absolute insignificance” was 
determined upon. In those days, hazing was great- 
ly in vogue, meeting as a rule with severe rebuke, 
if reported ; but the boys were game and it was a 
“rara avis” who would “sing of his tale of woe” to 
high authority. They would take their medicine 
manfully and another year apply the “lex talionis” 
to some raw “plebe” just joined. The aforesaid 
roisterers laid their plans well — though “best laid 
plans of mice and men gang aft aglee” — and in the 
dusk of an October’s evening, before “tattoo,” they 
seized Harold from all points of the compass and 
pinioned his hands and feet, despite his vicious 
struggles. He had been out for a “solitary,” as 
was his custom, and in returning toward his quar- 
ters, walking erect and proud, the hazing party 
had captured him down in the shadow of the 
stables, and now held him as a refractory prisoner. 
A blanket had been purloined from the saddle 
room, and in this they tossed him up, again and 
again, until he was breathless, and his immaculate 
uniform of gray covered thick with horse hair 
from the well-used blanket. Then his tormentors 
released him, and the leader, a burly, freckled- 
faced and red-haired youth — a son of a noted 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 157 

Union general of war fame — rebuked Harold for 
his former “high-headedness” and mirthfully told 
him that “pride goeth before a fall." When he 
was freed from the cords, which had left their 
deep impress upon his wrists, Harold, with blazing 
eyes and towering wrath, challenged the “sorrel- 
topped” leader to single combat, promising to 
“thrash him within an inch of his life.” From afar 
came the first call for tattoo, and he of the burly 
form and freckles promised on the morrow to ac- 
cept the challenge, and being the challenged party 
chose “gloves and a twelve-foot ring” on the spot 
made famous by the blanketing. 

“We will issue invitations to the battalion to 
witness the funeral ceremony,” laughed the bully 
of the corps, and hastily they hurried to their com- 
pany parades to answer roll-call. 

Now, it came to pass, on the following day, that 
the fistic “duel to the death” between De Lacey 
and O’Malley became noised abroad, and wagers 
were made as to how long the “Johnnie Reb” 
would stand up before the freckled “Yank.” Har- 
old was tall, erect, square-shouldered, but slender 
of build, appearing much lighter than he really 
was, by reason of his snug-fitting uniform, and 
the odds were ten to two that he would not last for 
fifteen minutes before his huge antagonist, who 
had for two years been the bully of the corps. 
After retreat and the cannon’s boom at sunset had 
ceased to echo through the wooded slopes, and arms 
and equipments were laid aside, there was a large, 
surreptitious gathering down by the stables, the 
cadets coming in pairs and squads. 

A young Virginian had championed Harold’s 


158 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

cause and tendered his services to act as second, 
and accompanied him to the “battle ground.” A 
hollow square was formed by the cadets around 
the twain, and these youthful gladiators stripped 
to the waist, and donned the “mitts.” ’Twas then 
that some of the backers of “the bully” weakened, 
for in Harold’s agile mould they could see the 
hard, transparent skin and muscle of the trained 
athlete — but none dreamed that he could hold out 
to a long finish with the noted bruiser of the Point. 
Surely brawn and weight, with a little science, 
could in a long fight crush the slender guard of 
the “Creole,” and put him hors du combat. A 
referee had been chosen, but it was to be a straight 
fight to a finish, no time to be called. 

With a wicked leer, O’Malley advanced to the 
centre of the ring and offered to shake hands be- 
fore hostilities commenced, but De Lacey refused 
the proffered “mitt,” and then the “dogs of war” 
were unchained. O’Malley aimed blow after blow 
at his slender opponent, but by side-stepping, duck- 
ing or blocking, De Lacey evaded them and planted 
stinging counters on the ribs and stomach of his 
burly foe. Cheer upon cheer went up— and O’Mal- 
ley, angered now, lost his head and tried vicious 
rushes, only to receive in quick succession two 
hard gloves upon his nasal organ, which brought 
the crimson tide in streams. In vain he tried to 
plant a sledge hammer blow upon Harold’s jaw, 
but went wide of his mark, and would receive 
upper cuts and short-armed jabs in return, which 
cut him into ribbons. 

Then there was sparring for wind, and watches 
showed that fifteen minutes had sped by, and 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 159 

O’Malley’s backers were crestfallen, for their 
hasty “sure-thing” bets were lost, and De Lacey 
stood up, cool, strong and without a mark from 
the conflict. Now everybody in the crowd was 
ready to be his friend, and his stock was above 
par. O’Malley with laboring breath and blood- 
covered body, roused his energies and again rushed 
to the attack, but De Lacey crouched low, and with 
a spring, like a panther, planted a blow upon his 
opponent’s “Adam’s apple,” with the force of a 
mule’s kick, and the bully fell backward stunned 
and gasping. 

There was a wild chorus of cheers, and the 
referee declared De Lacey the champion over “beef 
and brawn,” and all were eager to shake his hand. 
He had not received a single scratch, and when a 
bucket of water was thrown over the bruised and 
prostrate O’Malley and his dazed senses grasped 
the full meaning of his defeat, he rose totteringly 
and begged Harold to shake hands now, and “bury 
the tomahawk.” 

From that day on, Harold was sought after 
and lionized, and drawn into a few wild night 
orgies — his first downward step, his first taste of 
vice and dissipation. But he was young, and full 
of the slumbering fires of passions, which were to 
sway him in coming years. 

sfs % Hs * H* * ♦ 

The January “exams.” were passed and Har- 
old’s average was close up to the century mark. 
His standing in his class was only marred by “con- 
duct” — but he had gotten off with reprimands, and 
his escutcheon was unsullied as yet by court-martial 
sentence. The bete noir, the grand bugbear of 


160 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the corps in the spring of *79, was Cadet Phillips, 
who was of Afric descent and had been appointed 
from Ohio, despite the howls which had been ut- 
tered throughout the country, and especially from 
the corps. Constitutional amendments might 
equalize his rights and franchises, but the colored 
man must not be forced into social relationship, 
nor granted equal rank and military status with 
the scions of the best families in the land. The 
life of Cadet Phillips was made almost unendur- 
able, he was subjected to the greatest indignities, 
he was hazed time and time again — but still he 
plodded on and refused to be ousted from his ap- 
pointment. The war against him waxed warm and 
fierce, growing in strength because he took refuge 
in “reports” to the proper authority. 

At last, when a hazing party overstepped the 
bounds of reason, and branded him — I C S — with 
chemicals, a mark that he would bear to his grave, 
the names of the cadets who participated in the 
affair were discovered, and all the boys accused 
were placed in the guard house in close confine- 
ment, to await trial and sentence. Upon the wall 
above the barred doorway some luckless cadet “in 
hoc” for derelictions had penciled the words: 
“Who enters here leaves hope behind.” 

A court was called, tedious trial held, and sen- 
tence was passed, dismissing the guilty cadets 
from the Academy, with a recommendation for 
clemency. But the President was obdurate, re- 
fused to condone the offense, and approved the sen- 
tence. The blow fell with crushing, disastrous 
force upon the leader — Harold De Lacey. Dis- 
missal and disgrace ! *Twas more than heart could 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 161 

bear. From the academic halls he went forth — 
stunned, bowed down, broken in spirit, despairing. 
Never again would be have courage to look into 
the faces of those who loved him. His star had 
set, his barque was amid the breakers — hope had 
fled. 

Whither would his footsteps lead ? 


162 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTEE XVII. 

Captain- Lionel Spencer had just joined his 
regiment and troop at Fort Russell in the blazing 
July days of a Wyoming summer. The post am- 
bulance had brought him up from the railway sta- 
tion at Cheyenne, through Camp Carlan, the sup- 
ply depot, across the bare three miles of treeless 
and sun-scorched plain to the garrison. The re- 
volving wheels had borne him through the gates 
at the post-trader’s, and on round the roadway 
skirting the level parade, bordered with straggling 
young cottonwood trees — to his bachelor quarters 
on the “Officer’s Row.” He had been absent on 
“sixty-day leave,” visiting his relatives in the East, 
resting from long, dreary years of service on the 
arid soil of Arizona, in the Kansas wilds, and the 
temper-trying blizzards and sand storms of Wyo- 
ming. The faint spark of hope which had illumi- 
nated his heart’s altar three years before, had 
glowed and shed its incense, bringing some 
beauty into life, causing him to lay the telegram 
signed “Mary Preston” amid his faded treasure 
trove of “remembrances.” When his leave had about 
expired he again set out westward to take up the 
tangled thread of his existence, stopping over in 
Washington to report and register; and as he 
strolled back from the War Department toward his 
hotel, down the broad walk on the Avenue, his 
heart was stirred as it had seldom been stirred 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 163 

before. Up the shaded boulevard swept at a gal- 
lop two magnificent thoroughbreds, with ringing 
hoofbeats and gallant stride, bearing in their 
saddles a dark, imperious, handsome cavalier in the 
full prime of manhood, who bestrode his Arabian 
mount like a centaur, and a fair equestrienne, with 
coils of golden hair, wistful blue eyes, a beauteous, 
womanly form, a complexion like the peach blow, 
handling her spirited horse with inimitable grace — 
his heart’s idol, Mary Preston. 

Fourteen long years had passed away since his 
eyes had rested upon her fair, sweet face, since his 
hand had clasped her soft, thrilling palm, her lips 
been tenderly, lovingly pressed to his, and the gates 
of Sunny side closed upon him forever. Unmind- 
ful of the lingering gaze of pedestrians, who 
paused on the walk to watch the grandly matched 
pair, Louis De Lacey and Mary Preston dash on 
up the Avenue. 

Was Lionel Spencer’s hope and dream of bliss 
now rudely dispelled, to gather no more among 
life’s fitful shadows? Must he at last banish 
from its enshrinement forever and aye, the fair 
image of the Southern maid whom he had wooed, 
won, lost? Was she now the wife of that grand, 
dark man who rode so proudly beside her? 

Flushed with the invigorating exercise, charmed 
by the brilliancy of her escort, Mary Preston had 
galloped by and did not dream that the lover of 
her youth stood staring at her with hungry eyes 
and crushed and bleeding heart. 

Now Lionel Spencer had joined at Fort Russell, 
reported for duty, paid his respects to Colonel 
Jack Heathcote, who commanded his regiment, 


164 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

bowed with bared head over the taper fingers of 
Juanita — whose heart for years had gone out to 
him in pity and grief, whose dark eyes now were 
filled with tears as she noted the sad, forlorn, hope- 
less light which dwelt in his own. 

When first call for “Retreat” sounded at sunset, 
and the fiery ball was slowly sinking toward the 
western horizon, Captain Spencer donned gloves 
and sabre, and walked slowly across the parched 
grass of the parade as far as the acequia, running 
past the north end of the barracks of his troop. 
Here he paused to await “Assembly,” and, leaning 
against a weeping willow, which had been planted 
on the bank of the ditch, watched the troopers come 
forth with their bright uniforms and arms ready 
to fall in for roll-call. ’Twas a devil-may-care lot 
of men who served under the guidon of Captain 
Spencer’s Co. “D,” 15th Cavalry. Some were 
veterans of the civil war, and long frontier service 
in Nebraska, Arizona, Kansas and Wyoming, while 
others were younger, with only an enlistment or 
two, or else in service for a few months or years. 
Among the latter was a new recruit just assigned 
from the training school at Jefferson Barracks, 
near St. Louis, who had been entered upon the 
Company books and muster rolls as “Private Harry 
Lyons.” The corporal detailed to instruct him in 
dismounted and mounted exercise and his military 
duties had reported to First Sergeant Murphy, after 
a few days, that the recruit knew his duty as well 
as “an old timer,” and said “they were setting a 
man up much better at the Barracks now than 
when he was a rookie” So Private Lyons had 
been issued his clothing and cavalry accoutrements, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 165 

and assigned his roan horse for nse in the cavalry 
service. He would “go for duty” on the roster in a 
day or so, and had performed his “stable and 
cook’s police,” been initiated into post fatigue 
duties. He was only a boy of eighteen, but early 
maturity and virility had brought him a thick 
sprinkling of hirsute appendages, and he was en- 
listed at the recruiting office in New York as 
“age 23,” and forwarded to St. Louis for training. 
They were not particular in those days about en- 
listments, and no attention was paid to antece- 
dents. 

Private Lyons was tall, well formed, athletic, 
well educated ; and the surgeon had failed to find a 
single blemish or fault. So he had joined, been 
assigned to Co. “D,” and made up his mind to 
“do as the Romans do.” The trumpeters over by 
the flagstaff and field pieces in front ofthe guard- 
house sounded “Assembly,” and all the troops fell 
in on their company parades for roll-call under 
arms. First Sergeant Murphy formed “D” troop, 
brought them to a right shoulder arms, and be- 
gan calling his roll alphabetically, each man an- 
swering to his name and bringing his carbine to 
an “order arms.” In the meantime Captain Spen- 
cer walked over to the barracks and took his place 
out in front of the centre of his troop. As he did 
so, two blue eyes in the ranks were riveted upon 
him, stared at him, bewildered, fascinated. Once, 
twice, three times, Sergeant Murphy called in 
stentorian tones the name of the recruit “Lyons.” 
Rut ears oblivious to time and place heard not, and 
dilated eyes looked beyond the Sergeant and were 
wonderingly bent upon the face of Lionel Spencer. 


166 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

“What is the matther wid yez, Lyons? Why 
don’t yez answer to yonr name? Ye should ha’ 
taken one when yez enlisted that could be renum- 
bered.” 

A sergeant in the line of file closers recalled the 
recruit from his trance with a punch, and he 
hastily answered, “Here,” and came to the order 
— a bright flush of wonder and recognition over- 
spreading his features. The face of the older 
men were very familiar to Captain Spencer, and he 
glanced quickly at this new member of his troop. 
He in turn was so startled by the apparition be- 
fore him in the ranks that he confusedly returned 
Sergeant Murphy’s salute and ordered him to take 
his post, bringing the troop to “parade rest.” 

Where had he seen those features in the days 
of the past? At Sunnyside hung an oil painting 
of Henry Preston, portraying the same face, the 
same blue uniform, except that the painting rep- 
resented a second lieutenant of the days of ’45. 
Was he ever to be haunted by memories of a sum- 
mer long gone ; and even by a recruit in his troop 
to be forever reminded of the blue eyes, the golden 
hair of Mary Preston? Strange that no peace 
could be vouchsafed to him from lingering, crush- 
ing memories, even far out upon the sun-scorched 
plains of Wyoming. ’Twas but a chance resem- 
blance, he well knew ; still, the boy’s face was there 
and reopened his old wounds. Only a few days 
had gone by since the fair, sweet face of her he 
had loved for years had flashed upon him as she 
galloped by — and again came to him an appari- 
tion in varied form, in different guise. 

After “Betreat” the captain entered the orderly 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 167 

room, signed up the papers awaiting his attention 
on the clerk’s desk, and said to his first sergeant : 
“Sergeant Murphy, you have served nearly thirty 
years in cavalry and might have retired before this 
on account of the double allowance for four years 
of war service. I have some good news for you, I 
think. It is very possible that Congress will pass 
an act retiring you with the rank and pay of a 
second lieutenant, by reason of your long and faith- 
ful service. Colonel Heathcote has been using his 
influence in Washington, and has sent a long state- 
ment to the War Department of your service and 
gallantry on the frontiers and during the war, of 
which he is personally cognizant. Without doubt 
the bill will be recommended and passed. Will 
this recompense you, Sergeant, do you think ?” 

A flush of pain came to the brow of the old vet- 
eran, as he replied, “Capting, I’m gude fur thirty 
years yit in the saddle. I don’t feel a bit older 
than whin I wus a dragoon and the quarther- 
masther sargint of Capting Jack’s old throop at 
Camp Verde, in Tixis. I don’t want to retire. 
I kin bate the byes yit, even the ‘rookies/ By 
the way, Capting, we ha’ a new wan, a bright lad, 
but he can’t think o’ his name and stands at times 
a-dreamin’ in the ranks. He kin use his ‘dukes,’ 
too, and giv Sargint Morgin a dandy black eye 
fur cussin’ him and beratin’ him as ‘a bloody, gude 
fur nothin’ Briton.’ He’ll make a gude throoper, 
sor. I can’t git over his looks though, Capting, 
his face stares at me like a ha’n’t.” 

“Let me see his descriptive list, Sergeant,” — and 
upon this sheet Captain Spencer read: “Harry 
Lyons, enlisted in Hew York, born in England, 


168 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

age 23 ” and so on, giving his description for iden- 
tification. 

$ $ * $ $ $ 

All through those blazing days of the summer of 
*79 there came rumors of an outbreak of the Utes 
down at White River Agency, in Colorado. The 
Indians were muttering and holding “pow-wows” 
all over the reservation, and swearing vengeance 
against the government “that had cheated and 
robbed them,” threatening the Indian Agent, com- 
mitting depredations. 

“Coloran” and “Ute Jack,” two of their most 
turbulent chiefs, had filled up on “firewater” over 
at Peck’s Ranch, on Bear River, and delivered 
themselves of violent utterances against the 
“buffalo soldiers,” and the “pale faces” at Washing- 
ton. The young braves were mixing their paints 
and furbishing up their eagle feathers, anxious to 
show their prowess. The Utes were strong and 
warlike, and could muster a full thousand war- 
riors, all well-armed and mounted. “Father 
Meeker,” — the Indian Agent at White River — 
finally threatened to arrest the leaders of the re- 
volt and bind them in chains; but they only 
laughed him to scorn and defied him. In early 
September, he called upon the Department Com- 
mander for troops to aid him in suppressing the 
outbreak of the hostiles, to hold them in check and 
protect the Agency, which they threatened to loot 
and burn. 

The wires were kept hot at Department Head- 
quarters at Omaha for a few days, and finally the 
order came to Colonel Hcathcote to send two troops 
of the 15th to Fort Fred Steele by rail, immedi- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 169 

ately, to report to Major Thorndyke, who was to 
take command of the field force of cavalry and in- 
fantry. Captain Spencer begged and insisted 
upon having his troop detailed for the campaign, 
and Colonel Heathcote finally yielded, issuing the 
order for “D” and “F” to pack up and load at 
Camp Carlan, and proceed at once over the Union 
Pacific to the post on the Platte. Then down in 
the old, red, one-story frame barracks, and the 
stables at the foot of the hill on the creek, there 
were busy scenes of preparation. Troop and per- 
sonal property was boxed and stored until their re- 
turn, and field equipments were gotten in readiness 
for the long trip by rail and across the sandy 
plains. 

There was eager light in the eyes of the troopers 
of “D” and “F,” for they had been cooped up in 
garrison for many months, ever since they had 
ridden in from the sand dunes — and they pre- 
ferred tent life and action to drill and parade. 
But the most eager of the troopers for field service 
was the recruit, Harry Lyons. A detail was to be 
left in post to take charge of the barracks and 
troop property, and he was among the number. 
He had “bucked” to Sergeant Murphy against be- 
ing left behind, but that worthy said to him in 
prophetic words: “ThereTl be hot times maybe at 
the front, boy, an’ yez betther sthay where yez 
are. Betther let will enough alone, mi mon ” 

In vain he pleaded with the veteran to go along ■ 
with his troop and smell smoke, if there should be 
any; but there was some dim foreboding of evil 
in the mind of Sergeant Murphy, and though he 
liked the boy and bragged about his soldierly 


170 Colonel Harold De LaceyT 

qualities to the captain, he now roughly ordered 
him to his quarters. 

Fully determined to go, Private Lyons hurried 
to the quarters of Captain Spencer, but was told 
by the “striker” that “he would find him over at 
the colonel's.” A wave of disappointment and 
vexation swept over the recruit — for somehow he 
dreaded to come under the eye or into the notice of 
Colonel Heathcote. Some days before, by reason 
of his excellent military bearing and neatness, the 
adjutant at guard mount had selected him as or- 
derly for the C. 0., but he had protested and asked 
that he might be permitted to walk his post, as 
he was only a recruit, and wanted to learn his 
guard duties. But now he must see his captain 
or be left muling behind in barracks. Plucking 
up courage, born of despair, he wended his way up 
the line to the army home of the commandant of 
his regiment, and was told by the orderly, standing 
erect and soldierly out on the grassy lawn in 
front, that Captain Spencer was in the parlor 
closeted with the colonel. With trepidation he 
rang the bell and asked the trim maid, who re- 
sponded, to see Captain Spencer. Flushing 
slightly with anger at the interruption, Lionel 
Spencer came out on the porch to find that Private 
Lyons was the victim of his wrath. One glance at 
the pleading blue eyes of the ooy dispelled his an- 
ger. In the weeks which had passed, he had often 
watched the lights and shadows resting upon that 
face, so like — ah ! so like, that of a maid in a far 
Southern clime. 

“Captain,” the recruit hurriedly said, after 
saluting, “I did not' ask permission of the first ser- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 171 

geant to speak to you, but he has detailed me to re- 
main in post with the detachment to be left be- 
hind, and I am anxious for field service, sir. Will 
you permit me to follow my guidon, and go with 
the troop on this campaign, Captain ?” For a mo- 
ment Lionel Spencer hesitated, but those pleading 
eyes caused him to yield and grant the boy’s re- 
quest. 

“Tell Sergeant Murphy to change his detail, 
Lyons, and that you are to go with the troop, by 
my order.” 

“Thank you, sir,” the recruit answered — 
and proud, erect, martial in his bearing, he grace- 
fully saluted and strode back to convey the cap- 
tain’s order to the sergeant, who grumblingly 
obeyed it. 

While Captain Spencer was interviewing 
the recruit, Colonel Heathcote had stepped to 
one of the windows, and was looking out 
across the parade towards the barracks on the 
west side, where “F” troop was making rapid 
preparations for the field. As Private Lyons 
passed down the walk towards his quarters, and his 
rapid, martial tread bore him in full view, Jack 
Heathcote was startled — for there was the Henry 
Preston of West Point days, of ye olden time, in 
height, face, carriage. He rushed out into the 
hall, running into the captain, who was returning 
to the conference. 

“Who the devil is that young soldier, Spencer? 
Hoes he belong to your troop? If so, I’ll wager 
that he’s a ghost to you from the old days.” 

“He’s a young Englishman, Colonel, and joined 
my command on the 2d of July. Strange freaks 


172 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

of resemblance nature performs on opposite sides 
of the Atlantic. He was to be left behind, and 
came over to beg to follow his guidon. I could 
not resist his pleading eyes and told him he could 
go” 

* * H* * * * 

While the sun was yet blazing in the western 
sky, its warm rays scattered over the grassy slopes 
and the wooded hills along the banks of Bear River, 
resting with a warm glow upon the white tents of 
three cavalry troops, under command of Major 
Thorndyke, the trumpet notes rang out shrill and 
clear, to be echoed amid the environing hills, sound- 
ing“water and stable” calls. The horses of “D” and 
“F” of the 15th, and of “Daddy” Lawrence’s 
Troop “E” of the 13th, were at herd on the buffalo 
grass out back of the camp — and now the troopers 
tumbled out of their dog tents with blankets and 
watering bridles and responded to the call. After 
catching up the horses, taking off side lines and 
mounting up, the troopers rode down to the river 
to water, and in long columns of twos, marched 
back to their picket lines to feed and groom. 

During the grooming, five painted and befeath- 
ered sub-chiefs of the Utes rode into the camp to 
parley with the “White Chief.” They dis- 
mounted from their wiry little ponies and, after 
shaking hands, seated themselves in semicircle 
on the grass in front of Major Thorndyke’s tent, 
while their eyes roamed over the camp, taking 
in the strength of this field force, and its proba- 
ble fighting prowess. The major, a tall, handsome 
officer of infantry, with flashing black eyes, flow- 
ing side whiskers and magnificent physique, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 173 

towered far above them. One of the chiefs could 
speak English fairly well, and acted as speaker 
and interpreter. They explained their griev- 
ances during the “pow-wow, 77 and said the “White 
Chief 7 had too many men for peace, not enough 
for war — and advised him either to turn back 
with his force, or to come into the Agency alone, 
with five men, and they would treat with him; 
otherwise there would be trouble. 

Again shaki^ 0 hands, they mounted and rode 
away. Major Thorndyke was a brave and gallant 
officer — but there was a stain on his escutcheon, 
an old court-martial trial that fretted him, and 
now, if war came with these painted devils, per- 
haps he could blot it out. So far, the command 
had met with no hindrance, concentrating at Fort 
Fred Steele and marching on with guidons flying 
to Rawlings, the last railroad station, and thence 
across the sandy sage brush plains to Snake 
River, Fortification Creek, and the present camp. 

Night coming on, extra precautions were taken, 
Cossack guards being placed on the adjacent hills 
to give warning of hostile sign. But neither that 
nighfs vigil, nor the following Sabbath day’s 
march or bivouac were disturbed. 

Monday morning, the fateful 29th day of Sep- 
tember, ’79, dawned fair and bright. In two days 
the command would camp at White River Agency, 
and not treat for peace with the TJtes, but by force 
of arms secure their submission to the will of the 
government. Alas ! “Man proposes, God dis- 
poses. 77 The “general 77 call was trumpeted, tents 
were struck, baggage tossed into the wagons, and 
“boots and saddles 77 sounded — for the last time in 


174 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

many days. Ere another sun would rise above the 
eastern slopes, many ears in that command would 
be dulled to sound of trumpet note, many a gallant 
soldier answer the last “tattoo” — many well- 
trained steeds go to their final rest. “F” and “E” 
swung into saddles and moved out behind Major 
Thorndyke and his two orderlies. Captain Spen- 
cer took charge of the wagon tra 1 with a front 
and rear guard, and flankers. 

At 10 o’clock on that memorable day, from far 
to the front up Milk River Canon came the sounds 
of firearms, and volley after volley was poured into 
the command by the Utes from behind rocks and 
sage brush on both sides of the walled canon. 
Promptly Captain Spencer parked his train in 
circle — and back to it dashed “F” and “E,” 
leaving on the bridle path up the steep hillside the 
lifeless forms of Major Thorndyke and his two 
orderlies. They had fallen at the first volley 
from the swarming painted devils, on the war- 
path four hundred strong. 

Now from behind the rocks on the towering 
hillsides, rising on either hand, came a leaden hail, 
a fiery tempest — and man and beast went down in 
writhing pain or death. From front and rear 
came, rushing, crackling, burning, a wall of fire, 
for the Indian fiends had applied the torch to the 
tall grass and sage brush at both ends of the canon 
simultaneously, and dense volumes of smoke filled 
the skies above, around this little band. ’Twas a 
time to try the souls of men, when discipline is 
thrown to the winds, and each must be a leader, a 
self-preserver. 

Above the crash of firearms, the roar of the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 175 

licking flames, the groans of the wounded, the 
shrill neigh of horses, the loud braying of mules, 
rose the commanding voice of Lionel Spencer: 

“Out with your blankets, men, and lay aside your 
carbines. It is better to he shot than to he roasted 
alive. Start a back fire and fan it far out toward 
the coming flames, and clear a space around us. 
It is our only hope.” 

Right heartily did the men respond, and 
under cover of the dense smoke fought back 
the wall of fire, which had swept rapidly 
toward them. Saved from this fiery fur- 
nace, there were yet four hundred invisible foes 
around, about, above them, firing incessantly at 
men and beasts, raining upon them thousands of 
leaden bullets, bringing death and desolation. In 
the circular inclosure of the wagon train were 
tethered horses and mules, and among them were 
the troopers — braving the tempest, unable to find 
a target for their return fire except by watching 
the smoke from the deadly rifles of the hidden foe. 
The brave little ba^d were living targets, cooped 
up like pigeons in a trap to be shot at, their only 
protection from the unerring aim of the Utes be- 
ing the wagons and dead horses and mules fallen 
around them. 

Cool at all times, inured to the crash of fire- 
arms, fearless under fire or amid greatest dangers^ 
Sergeant Murphy ordered the men around him 
to mount the wagons and throw out the bales of 
tentage and blankets to use for breastworks around 
the parked wagons. Standing upright amid the 
leaden hail, seeing that his orders are executed, 
his burly form towering above dead, wounded. 


176 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

dying, he is struck by flying bullets, and falls, 
pierced and bleeding from many wounds, offering 
up his life at last to his flag, which he has followed 
so many long years. He fell with his face to the 
foe, and as his life-blood ebbs away and his sight- 
less eyes become fixed and glassy under the smoky 
skies of Colorado, the bill is being passed in the 
halls of Congress, retiring him with the rank and 
pay of a second lieutenant of cavalry. 

Too late, too late ! 

Bending above him with tender blue eyes filled 
with tears, his strong young arm lifting the mas- 
sive head and his free hand striving to staunch 
the crimson flow of life-blood from a ghastly wound 
through the bronzed temple of the old trooper, 
kneels Private Harry Lyons. 

Unmindful of danger, reckless of whistling lead, 
he ministers to the dying veteran, and his ears 
alone heard the gurgling sound, the last uttered 
word, “Mother” — as Sergeant Murphy joins her 
on the other shore. 

The sun finally sinks below the smoky western 
hills, and night spreads its curtain of darkness 
over the besieged' troops in Milk River Canon. 
More than a mile away, down the roadway to the 
Agency, in full view, the Utes build a huge bon- 
fire, and far into the night hold a war dance. A 
few remain behind the rocks on the steep hillsides 
to pepper the camp. Under the welcome cover of 
darkness the wounded are cared for, the dead 
buried with their martial cloaks around them. 
Dead horses and mules are dragged out of the cir- 
cular inclosure, and shallow entrenchments dug 
with shovel, spade and sabre. In the centre a 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 177 

wide pit is made for the wounded, and among 
them lies the surgeon, badly shot up, but able to 
feebly direct the helpers as to the first aids to the 
sufferers. 

Three volunteers were called for, and many re- 
sponded, to break through the line of Ute senti- 
nels and bear dispatches to Kawlings, the nearest 
telegraph station, a hundred and forty miles away. 
In charge of a citizen scout, mounted on horses 
which had escaped the rain of leaden missiles, with 
muffled hoofs, escorted for a quarter of a mile by 
dismounted troopers, these couriers rode forth 
into the darkness to carry the news of attack and 
massacre, to startle the nation with another sad 
tragedy on her borders, to present another scene 
of death and desolation like the downfall of Cus- 
ter and his gallant band on the Big Horn, three 
years before. 

Would these couriers ever reach the station 
alive, or would the keen eyes of the Utes watch 
their departure and pick them off one by one amid 
the defiles? 

Five suns were to rise ere sufficient succor would 
come, and they could be relieved from "days of 
danger, nights of waking.” In this pit of hell the 
wounded must suffer untold agonies, and writhing 
with pain look up to the gray, pitiless skies, pray- 
ing for death, begging their comrades to kill them 
and forever ease their sore distress. On the sec- 
ond day, when the fierce rays of the sun at jts me- 
ridian burned and scorched, and its heat parched 
the lips of the wounded, while a rapid fire still 
came from the hillsides and mowed down horses 

and mules, and Twas almost sure death for a 

5 > 


178 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

trooper to expose himself above the trenches, 
there were feeble, heartrending cries for “water, 
water,” with which to quench burning thirst. 
Camp kettles and canteens were empty, and it 
meant death to go down to yfe flowing stream 
coursing so temptingly through the canon, to fill 
them, until night should come with its shielding 
darkness. 

But among that little band was a sad-faced, 
blue-eyed boy, who knew no fear of death ; for its 
eternal mantle would cover his disgrace, and blot 
out forever the single stain which rested upon his 
name. Before detaining hand could stay him, he 
grasped a camp kettle, and, leaping over the bank 
of the entrenchment, walked proud and straight — 
as if on parade — down to the creek, and filled it 
to the brim. Not a shot had been fired at him, 
for the fearless bravery of the boy — Private Lyons 
— caused even the TJtes to pause for the moment 
in their ceaseless fusillade to admire his courage. 
As he came slowly up the bank with his precious 
burden, and started back across the open 
space, bearing to the wounded the priceless water 
which would assuage their parched throats, crack, 
crack, sounded the fiendish rifles on the hills, 
and the boy walked on unharmed amid the storm 
of bullets, fearful only that one drop might be 
spilled. 

Thirty paces more and he would reach the en- 
trenchments — but a bullet through the breast 
staggers him, he stumbles now, the blood gushes 
forth in crimson tide, his senses slip away from 
him, and as he sinks to his knees he lowers the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 179 

camp kettle to the ground, falling face forward 
on the sands. 

No matter what the stain which rested upon his 
name, the Recording Angel now blots it with a 
tear. Foolhardy and rash his act may have been, 
but the agonizing appeals of the wounded for water 
were more than his despairing heart could bear. 

Only another trooper gone down in the fiery 
tempest, only another “boy in blue” to fill a nar- 
row grave under the leaden skies — “unwept, un- 
honored, and unsung.” 


180 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

For several days Colonel Heathcote had been ill, 
confined to his quarters, and his wife, Juanita, 
was tenderly caring for him, wooing him back to 
his old impetuous self — her Jack then, now and 
forever. Their honeymoon had never waned as 
years crept upon them, and their wedded life was 
bliss personified. Their children had grown up, 
until both could look down upon the silver- 
streaked crown of their sweet-voiced mother, to 
whom they were devoted. Roi and Florence had 
both been taught perfectly the soft idiom of Spain, 
by reason of the landed inheritance which some day 
would be theirs m the sunny land of Mexico. 
They were both in the East at school — Rio taking 
a course in mining engineering, so as to fit himself 
for developing the Mexican mining property, and 
Florence installed at Yassar. The morning’s mail 
from Cheyenne had just been delivered, and among 
his letters the colonel found one from Roi. He 
was fond of his stalwart boy and he first opened 
his long, rambling letter — letting his official mail 
lie upon the table near the couch where he was 
resting. Suddenly he started up and excitedly 
called Juanita, who hastened to him from the 
parlor, where she had been playing the piano. 

“’Nita,” he exclaimed, “that boy I told you of 
in Spencer’s troop is Harold De Lacey. I might 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 181 

have guessed it long ago, though we haven’t seen 
him since he was a child. I know, now, why he 
startled me so. Eoi writes that he met Mary 
Preston and inquired of her why his letters to 
Harold were returned to him from West Point 
with the endorsement “not found/’ She told him 
that the boy had been mixed up in a hazing affair 
and had been court-martialed and dismissed from 
the Academy. He felt his disgrace so keenly that 
he wrote his father and Mary sad letters of fare- 
well, and told them they would never see him again 
until he had blotted out the stain. Well — truth 
is verily stranger than fiction.” 

There was a loud peal at the bell, and the ex- 
cited regimental adjutant hastened in and handed 
the colonel a telegram. Tearing it open, he cried : 
“My God, man, do you know the contents of 
this? Attacked, massacred, still surrounded by 
Ute devils out in Milk River Canon.” 

Illness was forgotten, uniform was donned, and 
in an hour messages were hurried to every com- 
mand along the line of the U. P. Passenger, 
freight and cattle cars were hastily demanded, 
and lightning preparations made to relieve the 
three troops from their perilous position. Even 
then, Colonel Heathcote might be too late, for 
nearly three days had passed since the couriers 
rode away in the darkness. 

$ Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi 

From, the port holes in the barricades many ' 
eyes had watched the unfaltering bravery of the 
recruit, Harry Lyons. Many marveled that the 
Utes had not fired volleys at him as he walked 
with martial tread down to the stream. Would 


182 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

they respect his courage, his dare-deviltry, and 
permit him to return unscathed ? Then came the 
fiery hail of rifle bullets — he is struck — he falls 
face forward on the sands — and a cry of horror 
goes up from many throats. 

Dead on the field of honor, his brave young 
heart perhaps pierced by many leaden messengers 
of death. Dead, and it may be that his name is 
assumed, and relatives and friends may never know 
how he answered his last roll-call. Dead — amid 
scenes of desolation, his ear now forever dulled to 
the piteous pleas of his comrades for water, his 
life-blood ebbing quickly away on the sands. 

“For God’s sake, don’t expose yourself, Spencer,” 
suddenly cried Captain Lawrence, or “Daddy,” 
as he was lovingly called by his men out of ear- 
shot. But Lionel Spencer heeded not, for the 
boy’s life might be saved, his wounds might not be 
mortal. Those blue eyes, that sunny hair, the 
face — so like that of her he had loved and lost — 
appealed to him from “the valley of the shadow.” 
No thought flashed into his mind of the danger, 
nor the whir of bullets, leaden messengers of 
death. Springing over the embankment, he ran 
to the prostrate form of the recruit, and lifting 
him as tenderly as a mother would her child, bore 
his inanimate form within the trenches. A few 
shots were fired, but went wide of their mark, 
and the charm which had ever rested upon Lionel 
Spencer’s head, shielded and protected him now. 
Could it be that a Divine Providence was ever 
hovering over his pathway, leading him on through 
darkness to the light? Was the silver lining yet 
to appear amid the clouds, a rainbow of promise to 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 183 

span his sky? Would his ear yet hear the glad 
refrain of “All’s well” from the far outposts of 
life’s darkness? 

A hasty couch was made, a daring trooper now 
leaped out and amid a storm of bullets brought in 
the camp kettle of water, himself only scratched 
by slight flesh wounds — and the blue flannel shi t 
of the recruit was opened, the gaping wound in 
his breast exposed. With sponge and water the 
clotted blood was washed away, carbolic lotions ap- 
plied with soft cotton, and a small mirror showed 
faint respiration. There was life, so there was 
hope. Every cavalry officer is familiar with first 
aids to the wounded, and Lionel Spencer had spent 
many an hour poring over surgical tomes to while 
away the tedium of lonely winter nights. This 
was an extreme case, a dead faint from concussion 
and flow of blood, and the boy’s lips were mois- 
tened with brandy, a few drops forced between his 
clenched teeth. His eyes at last opened wide, 
staring into the face of his captain, who bent 
gently over him. 

“Can you speak, my boy? You are brave, and 
have taken chances on life and death. Quick! 
Tell me your wishes, if the worst comes.” 

There was a gurgle in his throat, which was 
filled with blood, and for the moment he could 
not speak. Feebly he lifted his hand, and pointed 
to the buttoned pocket of his shirt — and feeling 
there Captain Spencer found an inlaid card case 
of pearl. 

“Shall I open it, Lyons?” he asked; and a nod 
from the wounded recruit so bade him. A swal- 
low of water had been given him, clearing his 


184 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

throat, and now he faintly whispered: “Tell — 
Cousin Mary — I have — wiped out — the stain.” 

As he falteringly uttered these words, Lionel 
Spencer drew forth from the case the miniature 
painting, on ivory tablet, of “The surrender of 
blue to gray.” 

A wave of remembrance swept over and en- 
gulfed him. This brave boy then was Harold De 
Lacey, who as a golden-haired child had romped 
about that vine-clad veranda, using his sabre as 
“his horse.” What stain could rest upon his proud 
name ? What evil could that fearless boy do, who 
was reared in the pure atmosphere of Mary Pres- 
ton’s love? How came it that he had forsaken 
home, loved ones, and all the beauties of life, to 
don the uniform of “blue and buff” on the plains 
of the West, and suffer' the hardships of the 
cavalry trooper? He could not question him, for 
the boy had fainted. 

Brave as a lion, fearless, strong man as he was, 
he bowed his head in abject woe, and in presence 
of both officers and troopers wept bitterly, and 
burning tears brought their relief. 

At the first peep of dawn on Wednesday, the 
third day of the siege, the carbines of the 
picket guards roused the camp. Down from 
the hills on a bridle path filed dusky mounted 
warriors, and in the dim light they were fired 
upon as foes. A ringing voice replied to the 
volley: “Friends! Captain Dodd with his col- 
ored troop to the rescue.” The couriers had 
reached Bear Biver and must now be far on 
towards the railway station — and joy reigned. 
Shouts went up from rejoicing throats, as Cap- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 185 

tain Dodd and his brave cavalrymen rode 
into the scenes of death and carnage. The Utes 
had purposely let them into the trap, believing 
that no earthly power could get them out — never 
dreaming that couriers had borne dispatches away 
under cover of the first night’s darkness, and that 
a^ overwhelming force would soon come and crush 
them. During the night there had been but little 
firing, but as soon as the colored troop was safely 
within the inclosure, then the storm of lead fell 
upon them. The dusky troopers sought shelter, 
but their horses were mowed down like chaff be- 
fore the wind, and none were left but the thin, 
raw-boned sorrel of Captain Dodd. 

Four more suns set upon the beleaguered troops, 
there were four more days of torture to man and 
beast — the agonies of hell. But relief was coming 
— the brave and gallant few were not yet doomed. 
Colonel Heathcote, under Department orders, with 
the energy of despair, was gathering his forces of 
cavalry and infantry at Rawlings, on the line of the 
Union Pacific. Fresh from a bed of sickness, the 
old war horse turned heaven and earth, and at two 
o’clock on Friday afternoon rode southward from 
the station, at the head of his command. Mounted 
on “Don,” his gallant old charger — now white 
with age, but full of the spirit that bore his master 
from the camp on the Guadalupe, in Texas, to 
Camp Verde, on that wild night ride to the bed- 
side of Juanita more than twenty years before, 
having sniffed the smoke of battle for four long 
years of civil war, been saddled for hard service 
in Nebraska, Arizona, Kansas and Wyoming, and 
still stepping with the long gallant stride of his 


186 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

colt days — Colonel Heathcote set a hot pace to 
follow. A hundred and forty miles away — sur- 
rounded by four hundred fiendish devils, many 
killed or wounded; amid the suffocating stench 
from more than two hundred dead horses and 
mules, suffering untold agonies — was that little 
band in Milk River Canon. 

The infantry mounted the wagons of the long 
mule train, following close up to the heels of 
the rear troop. There would be no rest, no sleep, 
for man or beast. Those dreary miles across the 
sandy sage brush plains, rough hills and rougher 
roads, must be quickly traversed, or it would be too 
late. Colonel Jack Heathcote set his teeth hard, 
there was a wicked light in his eyes, a tight grip 
in his knees, and “Don” instinctively knew there 
would be a hard ride and loud clash of arms at the 
other end. The gallant horse pricked up his ears, 
champed his bit, and his long six-mile stride 
caused the whole command to trot to keep in place. 
At times the colonel would rein him in, but fret- 
ting, flecking his master, he would soon regain his 
old pace. So the hours wore on with a few halts, 
a few short rests for food and water. The men 
could sleep in the saddle, the horses eat from 
their nose bags as they marched on. The infan- 
try would be fresh, as they were “humping” the 
wagons, and the cavalry — well, they could rest 
after their guns had wiped the whole Ute tribe off 
the face of the earth. Such were the thoughts of 
Colonel Heathcote, as “Don” bore him onward. 
At break of dawn on the Sabbath morning, the be- 
sieged troops were roused by the rapid fire of skir- 
mishers on both sides of the canon, by the war- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 187 

whoops and outcries of the Utes, who were sud- 
denly surprised in their sentinel slumbers and shot 
down by the score as they ran from cover. Down 
the roadway came Colonel Jack Heathcote, with 
the remainder of his command and wagon train 
— bringing relief, life, hope to the little band. 

In forty hours he had made that march astride 
the back of gallant old “Don,” who seemed to be 
made of plastic steel. With ground scouts far in 
advance on the roadway, with flankers on weary 
horses patrolling both sides, with front and rear 
guards, the wagons well up, Colonel Heathcote had 
approached the scene of massacre. Before the 
dawn had broken, strong skirmish lines of dis- 
mounted cavalry and infantry had crept 'round 
the hills in semicircle, and opened fire upon the red 
devils, causing them to scamper in confusion far 
to the west with heavy loss. Men from the pits, 
who were uninjured, hastily formed and sped up 
the walls of the canon to join in the pursuit of the 
fleeing Utes, to seek vengeance for their fallen com- 
rades. The hills roared with the sound of mus- 
ketry, the Indians now in turn bit the dust. 
Seated upon “Don," Colonel Heathcote looked 
around him at the scenes of death, heard the 
groans of the wounded, and tears filled his eyes, 
a sob filled his throat. For two hours the battle 
raged, until the Htes lifted a white flag and asked 
for peace, moving far back into the inaccessible 
hills. Worn out and weary from the long march 
the troops could not pursue them now — but when 
they begged for a conference under a flag of truce, 
and a renegade squaw-man came in to beg for a 
cessation of hostilities, Colonel Heathcote sent him 


188 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

back to tell the TJtes that “if the government 
wonld permit he would follow them to the ends of 
the earth and slay them to a man.” 

The first duty was to the wounded in the 
trenches, and the surgeons had trying duties to 
perform. The whole command was moved hack 
a half mile from the harrowing scenes, and hos- 
pital tents erected. Men and beasts that made the 
long weary march laid them down to rest and 
slumber, the besieged troopers standing guard. 

The orderly for the commanding officer came 
hurriedly now to Captain Spencer, and saluting, 
said : “The colonel sends his compliments, sir, 
and would like to see you at once at his tent.” 
Lionel Spencer reported immediately and Colonel 
Heathcote hurriedly asked: 

“Where is that young recruit, Spencer, who so 
resembled the Prestons?” 

“The brave boy lies badly wounded, Colonel, 
with a bullet in his breast. There was some fan- 
cied stain upon his name, but he has blotted it out 
by deeds of daring and heroism that the men in 
this command will nevei forget. The boy enlisted 
under an assumed name, sir, for he is Harold De 
Lacey.” 

“My God, Spencer, will he live ? Is h 1 so badly 
wounded that the surgeons can’t save him? He 
must have every attention; we must save him. I 
will send him straight to my wife at Russell, and 
her tender hands can restore life to him. If he 
should die away out here and in my regiment, too, 
I could never bear to look Mary and his father in 
the face again. By the way, Spencer, my niece 
has been a forbidden subject between us since away 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 189 

back in *65. She has never married, devotes her 
days to art, and I suppose her nights to thoughts 
of you out here on the frontier. Why don’t you 
write to her, my boy, and find how the land lays ?** 

“Never, Colonel ; she must sound the ‘recall.* ** 
And then Lionel Spencer related the deeds of 
Harold De Lacey, and how finally he fell, shot 
through the breast. 

“And who picked him up and nursed him, 
Spencer ?** 

“I, Colonel,** he answered. And Jack Heathcote 
rose up and embraced him, tears filling his eyes 
as he pictured both acts of daring and fearless- 
ness. 

sis * sfc * * * 

While the troops were besieged in Milk River 
Canon, the Utes burned the Agency buildings at 
White River, killed “Father Meeker,** the Indian 
Agent, and wrapping chains about his body, cast 
him and some of the massacred employees into the 
flames, where their partly burned and charred 
bodies were found when Colonel Heathcote ar- 
rived with his command to establish a winter camp. 

But a paternal government patted the Indian 
fiends on the back, clasped hands with them over 
the graves which cried out for vengeance, and 
again fed and clothed them. From Milk River, 
the troops which had been besieged, and their 
horses killed, walked wearily back on foot to Raw- 
lings with the wounded — bearing in their sad 
train the maimed and mutilated form of Major 
Thorndyke, whose dead, nude body, for six days 
had been the prey of buzzard and prairie wolf 
upon the hillside. His uniform long after graced 


190 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the proud form of an Indian chieftain down on 
White River, who strutted unharmed among his 
tribe arrayed in the blood-stained raiment of a 
nation’s hero — whose life was offered up as a 
sacrifice to his flag, never to be avenged. It was 
a sad march over muddy roads, as the rainy season 
had set in; but the wounded were tenderly cared 
for, and many were on the way to recovery when 
the railway station was reached. The troops 
went into camp at Rawlings, where new horses and 
saddle equipment were to be issued. The wounded 
men were sent by rail to the hospital at Fort Fred 
Steele. But there was one exception. 

Harold De Lacey, alias Private Harry Lyons of 
Co. “D,” was tenderly borne by Captain Spencer 
and a hospital nurse to the train on a soft litter, 
while the boy was resting easy under powerful 
opiates, and the twain with their charge went on 
to Cheyenne. There was the “Red-Cross” ambu- 
lance at the depot, and in it — to the surprise and 
wonder of the driver and attendants — sat the 
colonel’s wife. The train rolled noisily into the 
station, and the wounded boy was conveyed to the 
ambulance. With tears dimming her soft, tender 
dark eyes, Juanita offered her hand to Lionel 
Spencer in greeting, and together they bent over 
the unconscious form of the private soldier. Her 
Jack had written to her of the reckless bravery 
and heroism of this boy, and bidden her take him 
to her heart, beneath her own roof, and bind up 
his wounds, and woo him back to life as she would 
her own; and when he was out of danger to tele- 
graph Mary Preston to come to her aid and notify 
the boy’s father. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 191 

So, to the colonel’s quarters he was borne by 
gentle hands, ensconced in the best guest chamber, 
and when the band out on the lawn in front of j 
Captain Spencer’s bachelor quarters were wel- 
coming him with the soft, sweet strains of “Home, 
Sweet Home,” Harold De Lacey opened his sad 
blue eyes and gazed into the loved face of his 
“Aunt Nita” of the long ago. 

“Where am I, Aunt Nit a ?” he faintly asked, his 
questioning eyes roving around the strange room of 
the army home of his colonel. 

“You are with your auntie, Harry, here at the 
fort in Russell. You must not talk much, and be 
a good boy and get well” — and she patted his 
sunken, feverish cheeks with her soft hand, gently 
raising his head and smoothing his pillows. Truly 
had his lines now fallen in pleasant places, and 
after a day or so the surgeon told the colonel’s 
wife that all danger was past and the boy would 
soon get well. The bullet had been probed for 
days before, and found lodged under his left 
shoulder blade, still covered with small pieces of 
his raiment. 

* * * * * * * 

Captain Lionel Spencer had remained at Fort 
Russell to await the surgeon’s verdict, and now 
he prepared for his return to Rawlings to join his 
troop. His old veteran sergeant lay buried on the 
field, where he had gallantly fallen — with a rude 
sign board marking his resting place, by the side 
of his comrades, all in their last, long sleep. 

Appointments and promotions must be made of 
non-commissioned officers, and the depleted ranks 


192 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

filled. New horses and equipments must be se- 
cured, and there was sad work ahead for the com- 
ing weeks. Before taking the night train, he had 
called at the colonel’s quarters to inquire after his 
trooper and to bid Mrs. Heathcote farewell. He 
found that the boy was resting easy, but in no con- 
dition to be disturbed by his presence in the sick 
room, and so on the steps of the porch he stood 
with bared head in the moonlight to say good-bye 
to his colonel’s dark-eyed wife. As her hand was 
offered to Captain Spencer in farewell, the in- 
fantry sentinel walking post over on No. 1, at the 
guard house, called out the hour of ten. Around 
the chain it passed, the cries ringing shrill and 
clear on the night air — and then from the outer 
post, away down on the creek back of the cavalry 
stables, came the return “All’s well,” passing on 
from post to post until it bore back the welcome 
news of safety. “All’s well” — yet the heart of 
Lionel Spencer could not take up the glad re- 
frain. In Juanita’s glowing eyes was shining the 
light of hope; for that day she had telegraphed 
to Mary Preston the message saying, “Come.” 
Now, she bade Captain Spencer adieu, feeling that 
the sentry’s cry was auspicious. 

Fresh from a heated political contest in his dis- 
trict for his old seat in Congress, Louis De Lacey 
was speeding towards Cheyenne, to the bedside of 
his loved boy, of whom he had heard no word since 
his sad letter of farewell. Honors, wealth, all 
things faded into insignificance, were banished 
from his thoughts, when the image of his wounded 
boy rose up before him. His heart had told him 
that Harold would win his way, that he would in 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 193 

time get over the keen feeling of his disgrace, and 
return to him — be the same ambitious, brilliant 
youth of the olden days. Months had passed and 
he came not; but was now lying ill and wounded 
out on the plains of Wyoming. The flying wheels 
of the train seemed to him only to creep over the 
rails, yet he was speeding fast across the interven- 
ing states. 

From Sunnyside there was a rapid exodus of 
travellers, for with Mary came also General Pres- 
ton and his wife, Geraldine. It had been long 
since they had viewed an army post in the West, 
and now they would go also to Harold, be once 
again under the same army roof which sheltered 
Jack and Juanita. 

The morning train from Omaha rolled into 
Cheyenne on a bright October’s morning of that 
memorable year of ’79, bearing a distinguished 
party of Southerners. The Prestons and Louis 
De Lacey had met by chance, as they were board- 
ing the same Pullman, and had come on together, 
telegraphing ahead to Fort Russell that they were 
en route. Preparations were made for their com- 
ing — the surgeon himself, being from Hew Or- 
leans, furbishing up his best spare bed chamber 
for the gallant statesman of his native city — and 
Juanita, flying hither and thither through her nar- 
row home, arranged as best she could for the com- 
fort of her guests, soon to arrive. 

Singing to herself sweet bits of song, instruct- 
ing the maids and cook, running up now and then 
to see how her patient was faring, here, there, 
everywhere, Juanita yet found time to pen a note 
to her Jack, begging him, if possible to get away 


194 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

from his duties at White River, to come in for a 
few days to a glorious reunion. Too bad, she 
grieved, that Roi and Florence were so far away 

at school, and could not be with them. 

* * * * * * * 

Out at Rawlings, “D” and “F,” of the 15th 
Cavalry, were tented and were being rapidly out- 
fitted. A large command was now gathered there 
awaiting orders. The Utes were no longer on the 
war-path, had only amused themselves by slaying 
a lieutenant and his hunting party out on White 
River — the paternal government could pardon 
small escapades like that — and otherwise every- 
thing was quiet. The only stir in camp was a 
passing train, or couriers galloping in from the 
agency with dispatches. Finally an army am- 
bulance came rumbling in from the south, and 
Colonel Heathcote dismounted from its cover just 
in time to catch a train for Cheyenne. Three days 
sped by after the colonel had hurried through the 
camp, and the troops were busied breaking in their 
new horses furnished them by the Q. M. Depart- 
ment, there was a little drill, and besides that the 
usual routine of duties. As the shades of even- 
ing fell on the third day, Captain Spencer was 
sad and weary. He had been addressing letters to 
the relatives and friends of his dead and wounded 
troopers, and it was a painful duty. He was down- 
cast and disconsolate, and his service guidon float- 
ing at the door of his tent fell in with his mood 
and drooped around the staff. 

“This is Captain Spencer’s tent, sir,” said the 
voice of one of his troopers, and rising from his 
camp chair, he stepped out into the waning light, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 195 

and stood face to face with the tall, dark, im- 
perious stranger, who on that summer day gal- 
loped past him on the avenue in Washington at 
the side of Mary Preston. 

“Have I the honor of addressing Captain Spen- 
cer, of the Fifteenth?” said a silver-toned voice. 

“I am at your service, sir,” replied Lionel 
Spencer, and deeply wondered what business this 
imperious stranger could have with him in the 
wilds of Wyoming. 

“My name is Louis De Lacey, Captain. I came 
out here to ask the pleasure of clasping the hand 
of the man who so fearlessly exposed himself to 
bring in the wounded body of my boy to a place 
of safety, and tended him as a father. I owe you 
a debt of gratitude, sir, I can never repay.” As 
he was speaking he held out his firm, white hand, 
and Lionel Spencer grasped it, and a friendship 
was formed which was to be eternal. For an 
hour they sat in converse, and when Louis De 
Lacey rose to return to his room over at the 
“Railroad House,” he suddenly bethought himself 
of written messages to Captain Spencer, which 
had been entrusted to him for delivery. Apologiz- 
ing profusely for the oversight, he tendered the 
letters now, and after wringing the hand warmly 
that had saved his boy, bowed his tall form out 
of the tent and disappeared in the darkness. 

There were two letters — one in the big, scrawl- 
ing hand of his colonel, the other in characters 
which seemed dimly familiar as he glanced at the 
superscription. 

Drawing his lantern nearer, he looked again. 
Could it be from Mary — his “recall” after long, 


196 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

weary years of waiting? He tore it open with 
trembling fingers and read: 

“Fort Russell, Wyo., , '79. 

“Lionel, My Lover of Long Ago: 

“Mobe has washed away her tears, Mnemosyne 
sits smiling on her throne. Do yon, can yon still 
love me as of old ? If so, come to me. The bugles 
sing truce, and I would hold conference with you, 
after this cruel war of hearts. As I loved you in 
those summer days, I have ever loved you. As I 
forgave, forgive me. My father, who was my 
king, is at last dethroned, abdicating of his own 
free will, desiring to yield his crown to you. 
Come, and I will kneel in suppliance to the grand- 
est of men. Until a noble knight wishes to change 
the name, I will subscribe myself, Your 

“Mary Preston. 

“To Captain Lionel Spencer, 15th Cavalry, 

“In Camp at Rawlings, Wyo." 

For fourteen long years he had been doing 
fatigue duty, toiling wearily on — and now at last 
from ten thousand trumpets come the sweet notes 
of “recall"; from a thousand sentinels along the 
line, the glad refrain, “All's well." 

With eyes shining, with heart singing glad 
anthems, he forgets the letter from his colonel. 
But finally, in his fierce paroxysms of ecstasy he 
notices it, and breaking the seal finds the one line, 
over the well-known signature, “Report to me im- 
mediately at Fort Russell." 

******* 

In the November days the Louisiana returns 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 197 

showed Louis De Lacey overwhelmingly elected as 
a member of Congress, and telegrams of con- 
gratulation poured in upon him at Russell. Har- 
old was fast regaining health and strength, and 
his wound troubled him but little. 

There had been a rapturous meeting in Colonel 
Heathcote’s little parlor, when Captain Spencer 
had come in to report to his C. 0. A golden head 
had nestled upon a manly shoulder, a womanly 
heart been pressed close against a cavalry blouse 
adorned with captain’s bars, a pair of soft, tempt- 
ing lips had been offered up as a sacrifice. 

The aged king gracefully resigned his crown to 
his successor, and placed the hand of his daugh- 
ter in that of Lionel Spencer, believing that “to 
the brave belong the fair.” 

There was a quiet little home wedding in Colonel 
Jack Heathcote’s parlor, and the “army girl” came 
back to join the old flag. Only one lament was 
ever heard in all their future days of wedded hap- 
piness, and that came long after from “old Aunt 
Caroline,” who said: “I’se nevah gwine to furgiv 
you, honey, fur gitten’ married way outen dere, 
sose old Caroline couldent frow a baskit ob rice 
after yo\” 

Louis De Lacey requested Harold’s discharge 
from the War Department by reason of his minor- 
ity, and in the early days of December, a week 
after his troop returned to Russell, he received 
his parchment adorned with the “spread eagle,” 
with character “Excellent” — and signed with a 
big scrawl — 

“Jack Heathcote, 

“Col. 15th Cavalry, Bvt. Brig. General.” 


198 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

For twenty years, or more, Harold De Lacey 
was to preserve that discharge from his first regi- 
ment, and proudly exhibit it to his friends as his 
greatest treasure. In the future he would be a 
free-lance, and serve under various foreign flags, 
but like his “Cousin Mary,” would in the end re- 
turn to the Stars and Stripes — the banner of “the 
brave and free.” 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 199 


CHAPTER XIX. 

General Victor De Leon was one of Mexico’s 
most honored sons — a gallant soldier, a brilliant 
statesman and diplomat. Of pure Castilian birth 
and noble family, he was, and had been from early 
youth, thoroughly and earnestly republican in his 
views, in his later years imbibing deeper draughts 
at the font of Juarez’s wise and humane adminis- 
tration. Brilliant in camp and court, prepossess- 
ing in manner and attainments, he was the idol of 
the Mexican people — and when he was sent to 
Washington, in ’83, on a diplomatic mission, the 
doors of the departments and the most exclusive 
homes of “the powers that be” were swung wide 
to receive him. 

In social circles he was lionized and proud belles 
of the capital smiled upon him bewitchingly, wove 
round him silken meshes — for he was unmarried, 
handsome, rich and a powerful grandee in the 
sister republic. 

One of the prettiest debutantes in Washington 
two seasons before had been Florence Ileathcote, 
daughter of Brigadier- General Jack Heathcote, 
TJ. S. A., promoted from colonel of the 15th 
Cavalry, and assigned to the Department of Texas, 
with headquarters at San Antonio. Mrs. Juanita 
Heathcote’s family bore far remote relationship to 
the De Leons — the family tree being rooted in dis- 


200 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

tant Castile in Spain. Two centuries before, a 
pilgrim barque bad borne their progenitors across 
the stormy Atlantic, and the proud families of 
De Leon and Galindo had planted offshoots from 
the parent stem in the valley of Mexico. Florence 
had made her debut under the wing of Captain 
Lionel Spencer’s wife, nee Mary Preston, who had 
’taken up their residence in the capital shortly 
after marriage — the captain being installed in the 
War Department as an assistant adjutant general. 
Through the whole season of ’83 General De Leon 
was a constant, an honored visitor at the home of 
the Spencers, and his carriage, with its coat of 
arms, or his magnificent charger, became “land- 
marks” out on Virginia avenue, where they had 
erected their cosy home and welcomed, their coterie 
of friends. Tongues were wagging in all the so- 
cial circles of Washington — and pouting, disap- 
pointed lips pronounced it “a shame” that the 
grand cavalier should forsake more beauteous 
bowers and seek the shy, sweet presence of Flor- 
ence Heathcote. 

General De Leon was yet on the sunny side of 
the half-century mark, and his years sat lightlv 
upon his shoulders. Gallant in command of the 
armies of Mexico, mesmeric, keen and wary in 
fields of diplomacy, he was yet young enough to 
turn the heads of queenly belles. The season 
ended, and upon Florence Heathcote’s finger 
glistened a princely circlet — and General De Leon 
had vanished from the capital to return proudly 
to his native land, bearing with him the promise 
of a fair hand, a gentle, womanly heart. On his 
way westward to his sunny land of Mexico, he 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 201 

had tarried at San Antonio to pay his respects to 
General Heathcote and his wife, Juanita, begging 
of them a priceless offering — the hand of their 
daughter in marriage. 

* * * * * * * 

With his discharge from the army of the United 
States, and his heart stiff wrapped up in the 
starry banner, still yearning for the sound of 
trumpet and the clash of arms, Harold De Lacey 
had gone with his father to Washington. His 
wound had rapidly healed, and the color stolen 
back to his cheeks ; but somehow there lingered a 
spirit of unrest, a sense of vanished hopes, of ob- 
jects unattained. 

Can it be that the military spark is kindled 
upon the hearths altar at birth, glowing on through 
days of childhood, youth and early manhood, blaz- 
ing up at last in steady flame and lighting the 
pathway of the man onward, guiding him from 
civil pursuits, from encompassing luxuries, to the 
far camp, the lonely bivouac ? Can it be that man 
is born, and destiny surely, swiftly bears him to- 
ward a flag, to camp scenes, to the ranks of an 
army — his ear being attuned only to trumpet note 
and sabre clash? 

Consider these queries, and when you read 
“finis” to these chapters, and the story of a soldier’s 
life is ended, answer me fully. 

In the summer of ’80, when the sun rested with 
fiery glow over the capital, and society fled to the 
mountains and seashore, leaving the toiling thou- 
sands in the departments to swelter and work, 
Harold De Lacey shipped his luggage by rail to 
Charlottesville, down in AlbermarD County, Vir- 


202 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

ginia, and rode away on his bay charger across 
the Potomac. In the months which had passed, he 
had fully recovered from his wound and was 
strong and athletic, as in the days when he gal- 
loped from Fort Russell down to Cheyenne on 
“horse pass.” He had promised his father to 
enter the law school at the University of Vir- 
ginia, and become an ardent disciple of Black- 
stone and Kent — to seek honors in civic profes- 
sion, and forget his longings for a military career. 
The months at the capital had palled upon him, 
even though the cosmopolitan city held out to 
him a thousand attractions. He had received, as 
a present from his father, a beautiful Kentucky 
thoroughbred, and -his greatest pleasure had been 
found in horseback rides about the suburbs or in 
mounted solitary excursions over across the broad- 
ly flowing Potomac. Whenever there had been 
military sounds of drum, fife or trumpet in the 
broad streets, or he had galloped over to Fort 
Meyer on the Virginia shore, back came the old 
longing, the silent appeals from the voices within 
him that refused to be hushed. 

How, on a summer’s morning he reined his 
steed away from the home of his “Cousin Mary,” 
rode out to Maryland avenue and on across the 
Long Bridge, southward. In his bridle path lay 
many noted battlefields and famed hamlets, amid 
the mountains and valleys of Virginia, and he 
could tarry beside them at will, as the days 
brought him onward to his goal — the university. 

Fretting over his lost hopes of a military career, 
he formed questionable acquaintances, consorted 
with wild associates. He was the most brilliant. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 203 

and at the same time, the wildest, most reckless 
student in the university. With wealth at his 
command, and an indulgent father to gloss over 
the stray reports which were borne to him at 
Washington, Harold had no detaining hand to 
stay him in his deviltry. Louis De Lacey him- 
self, in the days of his early youth in Paris and 
at Heidelberg had sown his full quota of “wild 
oats” — having his adventures in the Quartier 
Latin and his student duels on the banks of the 
Neckar. Now he recalled those days, and smiled 
as he thought that his boy had an inherent right 
to follow in his footprints of the long ago. 

He was young yet, and a few years would quiet 
him down, steady him for futurity. And so the 
months rolled by, Harold leading his class in 
•study, far outstripping them in mild vices and 
mischievousness. 

On the country roads at odd hours of the early 
morning or late into the night, a lone young 
horseman would startle the quiet denizens, as he 
galloped rapidly past — riding off the flush painted 
by too much wine. “Light Horse” Harry De 
Lacey he was known far and wide about Char- 
lottesville, and the good church folk would sigh 
to think that such a brilliant young student was 
treading forbidden paths, and in the clutch of 
his Satanic Majesty. At the university there was 
no censorship, no stringent discipline, to hamper 
him, and in his classes he had the highest per- 
centages on examinations — why should the faculty 
lecture the wild youth? But there came a day 
when a deep change fell upon Harold De Lacey. 
The boy had become a man — and deep within the 


204 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

recesses of his heart lay enshrined the image of a 
maiden with soft, tender brown eyes, and lissome 

form. 

Out near Monticello was a country chapel, where 
worshiped the country families — an old brick 
structure, built in the days of Thomas Jefferson, 
now overgrown with clinging ivy and shaded by 
chestnut and oak. 

In the gray dusk of a November’s evening, Har- 
old was galloping past the old chapel, when his 
attention was arrested by the presence of a large 
gathering within the walls. Drawing rein, he 
hitched his horse and joined the assembled throng. 
The programme was &n entertaining one. During 
the exercises a vision of beauteous girlhood ap- 
peared to him on the temporary stage — and parted 
lips sang, “When the Swallows Homeward Fly.” 
Enraptured, Harold gazed upon the girlish form 
arrayed in soft, clinging robes of white, her taper 
waist encircled by a broad, black-beaded girdle, 
her dark eyes filled with a soft glow, a crown of 
nut-brown hair rippling above her fair brow — a 
beautiful picture, long to hang in memory’s halls. 
Her voice was sweet, well-modulated — and the 
change came, the boy was a man, his heart crying 
out for possession of this girl as his own. Her 
brother was one of the few quiet friends of his 
class, who admired his brilliant intellect, yet de- 
plored his wildness and depravity. To his mother 
he had often spoken of young De Lacey, and when 
the entertainment was over, there were introduc- 
tions — the sequel being that Mrs. Thorne, the 
mother of his classmate and the fair young singer. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 205 

proved to be an old schoolgirl friend of his mother 
at Richmond in the ante-bellum days. Fate had 
been propitious — and as Mrs. Thorne spoke feel- 
ingly of the love which had bound her to Edyth 
Lyle, Harold’s eyes were dimmed with tears, his 
heart was chastened, and his better nature strug- 
gled through its fetters to the light. A courteous 
invitation was extended to him to gallop out often 
to see them at “Woodland,” and from the walls of 
that old country chapel Harold rode forth into the 
night, back to Charlottesville — a purer, better 
youth. 

Evil associations, boon companions, were 
shunned henceforth, and the university marveled 
at the reformation. “Light Horse Harry” a saint, 
and in love. Jessie Thorne, the little gypsy, had 
indeed proven a powerful magnet — to draw him 
away from his old haunts. 

“Duke,” the dappled bay, whose rapid hoof- 
beats had rung out on the night air as his young 
master spurred him in flying gallop over country 
lanes, now knew but one bridle path — and that 
led towards the gates of “Woodland.” ’Twas the 
clinging, purifying, first love of early manhood — 
to live through days of darkness, in court and 
camp, on and on forever. Years might pass, a 
silver thread shine among the gold, many a radi- 
ant face and figure dawn above life’s horizon — 
yet that vision of girlish beauty in the old country 
chapel would never be forgotten, be ever brought 
to mind, through all futurity. 

In the springtide, while birds were mating in 
the wildwood along the wooded banks of the Ri- 
vanna, Harold De Lacey rode out through the 


206 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

sweet-scented woods to the country home, whose 
roof sheltered his heart’s dearest treasure. 

Out in the rose garden, amid the perfumes from 
myriad flowers, while the birds sang in one grand 
chorus, he declared his love. The soft, pink palm 
of Jessie Thorne crept into his — and together, 
youth and maid, hand clasped in hand, they 
sought her parents and obtained consent to their 
union, when the blushing girl before them should 
reach maturer years, for she was now only seven- 
teen. 

Sir months had passed happily away, since 
Harold had viewed the beauteous apparition be- 
fore the footlights in the old ivy-clad church. 
During this swift passage of time his lips had not 
tasted wine, his feet ne’er strayed into forbidden 
paths. When the bright days of June, ’82, were 
ushered in on the wings of time, the spring term 
of the university came to an end, and Harold De 
Lacey received his degree as “bachelor of law,” 
and his license to practice at the Virginia bar. 

Again was his barque on smooth seas, there 
were bright skies above him, a brilliant future 
open to him — unless his evil star of destiny should 
guide him amid the breakers, the rushing waves 
bear him towards the rocks, or siren voice lure him 
into life’s Charybdis. After graduation, a week 
was spent under the hospitable roof, where dwelt 
his little brown-eyed gypsy — a week of joyousness, 
the brightest page in his book of life. Then sweet 
vows of love eternal were pledged, farewells were 
spoken, they parted — to meet no more, until time 
had wrought myriad changes, their youth had 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 207 

fled and sorrow oft sat enthroned in crushed and 
crumbling temples. 

* * * * * * * 

The “Crescent City” had donned its holiday at- 
tire of brightest hues, and thousands had gath- 
ered there to attend the “Mardi Gras” of ’83. 

From Maine to Texas, from the Cascade Range 
to the Florida keys — the vast throng of revellers 
had come to do honor to Rex and his Queen. With 
gay-colored pennants flying, amid the crash of 
bands and whistles from the legion of crafts upon 
the Mississippi, the “King of the Carnival” had 
steamed up to the gates of the city, and the keys 
were delivered up to him — all were to be his 
obedient subjects for three days of grand revel 
and gladness, all to follow in his train. Harold 
De Lacey had entered his father’s law office after 
graduation, and surrounded by a choice library of 
legal lore, applied himself earnestly, manfully to 
the acquirement of a knowledge of the intricate 
court practice of Louisiana, based partly on the 
Code Napoleon. Still fired by the military spark, 
he had joined the “Crescent Rifles” and soon after 
had been elected as a second lieutenant, proudly 
wearing the uniform of that crack organization for 
drill, parade and military social functions. Many 
missives of love had winged their way back and 
forth between New Orleans and Charlottesville — 
the “rose of the Rivanna” being the sweetest in his 
garden of womanhood. 

Now in this season of festivity he had been 
urged to take part, and had chosen the masque of 
“Ivanhoe.” Right well was that valiant knight 
of chivalry typified — yet “Rebecca” was to give 


208 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

him deep lance thrust, instead of healing his 
wounds received in the tourney. In. all that vast 
pageantry, extending for blocks along the crowded 
thoroughfare, none were more knightly than 
Ivanhoe, none better mounted, or none more ad- 
mired. 

The car of Rex wheeled out of Canal into St. 
Charles street, and in his train followed his liege 
subjects to pay him homage. Fairest in that long 
line of masked revellers was the “Queen of 
Roses” — and seated amid the silken cushions of 
her costly equipage, drawn by a well-matched 
pair of grays, she pelted all with roses from gilded 
baskets. As the “Knight of Ivanhoe” rode past 
her carriage she bade him lower his lance, and on 
the point she placed a woven wreath of rare red 
roses, signaling that he must desert all other 
bowers and be her attendant gallant of the carni- 
val. So, with knightly courtesy, he rode beside her 
carriage — little dreaming how fair, how false, how 
satanic, was the face of the “Queen of Roses.” 
When the pageantry had faded away in the twi- 
light, Ivanhoe was bidden to a feast at Moreau’s — 
and obeyed the behest of the fair unknown. Dis- 
mounting, the knight lifted his queen from her 
bower of roses, and together, en masque , they 
dined. The knight was too gallant to refuse the 
rare old wine poured by the delicately veined hand 
of his queen — and when the hour for the grand 
ball arrived, he escorted her thither with flushed 
face and sparkling eye, fascinated by the glow- 
ing dark orbs behind the mask of his fair charmer. 
Within the splendid salon of the St. Charles had 
gathered the flower and chivalry of the Crescent 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 209 

City, and brilliant lights cast their rays over fair 
women and brave men. Music charmed the ear, 
the magnificent costumes were dazzling, but in the 
mazes of the dance a silken cord was sundered, 
and, lo ! the masque of the “Queen of Roses” fell 
upon the polished floor. From many feminine 
throats went up a cry of horror, for before the 
gaze of the select throng of the purest of the pure 
stood revealed the beautiful face of Beatrice 
Lefevre — the most noted courtesan of the Cres- 
cent City, who had wrought more ruin than Cleo- 
patra of the Nile. 

For her smiles many duels to the death had 
been fought under “the oaks,” and she had lured 
many to their ruin with siren voice. Harold De 
Lacey knew her not, yet for weeks her serpent eyes 
had marked him, and she had at last coiled her- 
self in his path, planted deep her fangs. 

There was a scene of turmoil and strife. The 
ushers rushed forward and demanded explanations 
of the “Knight of Ivanhoe,” and insisted upon in- 
stant departure from the ball. Knowing not his 
enchantress, still en masque and flushed with wine, 
Harold De Lacey drew his ponderous blade from 
his scabbard and defied them. From all sides he 
was attacked, yet made a valiant defense — wound- 
ing a number of his foes, who finally ejected him, 
turning him over to the police, with serious 
charges against him to face on the morrow. Again 
had his star gone down in a bank of clouds, and 
his barque was adrift on perilous seas. Column 
after column in the morning papers presented his 
disgrace to friend and foe, and weeping skies bent 
over him. 


210 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

What foreign flag would welcome a luckless 
free-lance to its ranks ? The young eagle’s pinions 
had been pierced by poisoned arrows, and the 
wounds rankled sore. In what strange clime 
could balm be found to heal and cure ? 

******* 

A speeding ship was wallowing in the chopping 
waves on the angry Gulf, and its prow was headed 
for the ports along the coast of Mexico. Upon 
the deck sat a wan-faced youth and gazed with 
eyes of farewell back toward the land of his birth, 
where dwelt all his heart’s treasures — back to 
shores which would see him no more, where time 
and tide would in years to come obliterate his foot- 
prints on the sands. His fair hair was damp with 
salt spray, his blue eyes filled with hot briny crys- 
tals, his heart’s dark chamber irradiated by only 
one ray of light. 

When Harold De Lacey had grasped the warm 
hand of his old schoolmate, Vidal Martinez, in 
farewell clasp in the summer of ’78, nearly five 
years before, each had a promise given that “if 
dark days fell upon them they would seek solace in 
their friendship of old, and lend helping hand.” 
That promise was soon to be fulfilled, under 
strange auspices. 

Harold had penned and posted sad, repentant, 
heartrending letters to his father and Mary Spen- 
cer, at Washington, giving the true version of the 
disgraceful affair of the carnival, begging them to 
ever think kindly of him, and telling them he 
was preparing to become an exile from the land 
of his nativity, to seek his fortunes on a foreign 
strand, to tender his luckless sword to the Mex- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 211 

ican flag, and they would never see his face again 
until he should at least win the eagles of a colonel. 
Now, as he was speeding across the Mexican Gulf 
in the teeth of an early spring gale, to join his 
comrade of old, to fulfill the promise of his boy- 
hood — there were bowed, sorrowing heads at the 
Federal capital, and his letters had been perused 
through a blinding mist of tears. Louis De Lacey 
was prompt to act, and the wires bore to General 
Martinez, secretary of war in the sister republic 
of Mexico, a greeting, and request that favors be 
extended to his son Harold, who was coming 
thither “under a cloud.” 

The decrees of Fate fall with crushing weight 
in all parts of this mundane sphere. The hoary 
head of General Martinez was also bent with 
grief ; for his boy Vidal had proudly entered upon 
a brilliant career in his native land, only to be 
drawn into the vortex of a state revolution in 
Oaxaca, to take prominent part, be captured by 
adherents of the state government, and by a dar- 
ing maneuver escape from his relentless foes — to 
gain his freedom, but to vanish completely, leaving 
no word, no sign. From the hour of his escape 
from his political enemies, no eye that knew him 
had seen the handsome face of Vidal Martinez, 
and his father had donned the sad raiment of sor- 
row. 

To this home of grief in the City of Mexico, 
finally came Harold De Lacey, seeking the true, 
tried friend of his early years. With him he had 
brought his horse, his sword, the cherished “keep- 
sakes” of the past — and a heart sore, despairing. 
He was welcomed by General Martinez and his 


212 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

family as one of their own — for was he not the 
boyhood’s friend of Vidal, the son of Louis De 
Lacey, their former compatriot? Their house, 
their hearts, their all, were laid at his feet. From 
that sheltering roof in the tropics, through whose 
windows the eye could look forth upon the bright 
skies, the snow-clad peaks of the Cordilleras, the 
patio with its spraying fountains, blooming flow- 
ers and scented shrubs — a letter winged its way 
to the shores of Virginia, addressed to Jessie 
Thorne, the “rose of the Rivanna,” near Char- 
lottesville. ’Twas a letter fraught with sadness 
and shame to Harold De Lacey, bearing on its tear- 
stained pages a message of undying love and devo- 
tion ; yet sundering the ties which had bound them, 
releasing her from their engagement, tendering 
her freedom from pledges of constancy. 

That letter was almost a death-blow to the 
brown-eyed maid, and for days, weeks, months, 
nay, years, her eyes would fill with tears, when 
memory would cruelly present sad pictures of the 
past. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 213 


CHAPTER XX. 

For three days the City of Monterey had been 
bedecked with the tri-colored flags of Mexico — 
red, white and green. The streets had been filled 
with bands of music, and in the twilight gaily 
dressed throngs poured into the Plaza de la Zara- 
gossa to mingle in the promenade on the broad 
walks, amid the sweet odors from myriad flowers 
and blossoming trees, to listen to sweet strains 
from the military band, to enjoy the view of 
spraying fountains, whose waters shimmered un- 
der the brilliant rays of electric lights and the 
glistening moonbeams. 

There were three grand fete days — to end on 
the third night with a magnificent ball at the 
Hotel Iturbide. The honored son of the city, the 
darling of the Mexican army — General Victor De 
Leon — had returned from the marriage feast at 
San Antonio, bearing with him his blushing bride, 
nee Florence Heathcote. 

The year ’84 had witnessed the international 
marriage which was to bind the sister republics in 
holy bonds. As Mexico’s garden of womanhood 
had years before been despoiled of its fairest 
daughter by the hand of Jack Heathcote, now in 
retribution he gave back his own as wife to Victor 
De Leon, and the sun-kissed land rejoiced. 

When the special car had rolled into the railway 


214 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

station over the serpentine narrow gauge track of 
the “Internacional Mexicana,” bringing back to 
his native soil General Victor De Leon with his 
lovely bride from en otro lado , his carriage, as it 
rolled from the depot toward his old Moorish man- 
sion in the heart of the city, was showered with 
flowers, and the dusty roadway strewn for more 
than a mile with a floral carpeting. For three 
days the rejoicing was at high pitch, and bells 
chimed, bands played — Monterey was mad with 
joy. 

Now on the third night the Hotel Iturbide pre- 
sented a brilliant, inspiring pageant. The streets 
which formed a rectangle round its two sides were 
lined with coaches and richly caparisoned chargers 
held by equerries. Within was a bright scene, 
where soft lights fell upon dazzling toilets and 
glistening uniforms. Tropical plants, floral 
bowers, sweet perfumes, music’s strain, flashing 
eyes, all lent their charm, shed their fragrance 
over the interior. No expense, no labor had been 
spared to f make the function a grand and memora- 
ble one. 

From afar, a junior lieutenant of cavalry had 
watched the scene with wistful eyes. His Norse 
type betrayed his alien blood, proclaimed the free- 
lance, who had bidden farewell to his native 
shores and sought service beneath a foreign flag. 
In the one short year under the banner of Mexico, 
which his father before him had followed, he had 
gained the love of his troopers, the respect and 
good-will of his equals and superiors in rank. 
Through the influence of General Martinez, the 
Secretary of War, who had held his portfolio under 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 215 

three different administrations, this young Amer- 
ican had been commissioned as junior lieutenant 
in the 3rd Regiment of Mexican Cavalry. He 
had seen hard, dangerous service against the Ya- 
quis, and afterward along the Texas borders in 
Nuevo Leon and Tamaulipas, which were overrun 
by bandits and lawless desperadoes from both sides 
of the Rio Grande. With his saddle for a pillow, 
and the dry, starry skies above him for a canopy, 
he had bivouacked on the arid plains whose only 
vegetation was cactus, chapparal or catwood. He 
knew no fear, was ever ready to volunteer for the 
most dangerous or arduous duties, was an expert 
swordsman, a thorough horseman, and from prac- 
tice had become the best pistol shot in his regiment. 
When a platoon or detachment was wanted from 
his troop, and he was given the detail, the men 
almost fought for place in his column, so eager 
were they to be under his sole command. No task 
was too hard, no march too long, no duty too 
dangerous, if he gave the order. They both 
feared and loved him — he was their fair-haired, 
blue-eyed idol, and spoke their idiom like a na- 
tive. If, at some of the fiestas , he had looked too 
long upon the wine when ’twas red, played with 
heavy loss at the monte games, or danced with 
some of their bright-eyed queridas — they smiled 
and forgave him; for he would be light-hearted 
over it, after a long gallop across the sands at sun- 
rise. 

The headquarters of his regiment were at Mon- 
terey, and all of the officers had been bidden by 
their colonel — Manuel Seguin — to the ball, to pay 
homage to their loved general, Victor De Leon, 


216 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

who was commander-in-chief of the Mexican 
forces. Out on the calle, held by a swarthy skinned 
orderly was “Duke,” his dappled bay, pawing and 
champing his bit. 

Noticing that the young American was viewing 
the splendors of the ball from a distance, Colonel 
Seguin sought him out, and persisted in present- 
ing his young subaltern to General De Leon and 
his bride. Pushing him forward to the group 
clustered about them, the colonel bowed low with 
military grace and said: 

“General De Leon, I have the honor of present- 
ing to you Lieutenant De Lacey, of my regiment, 
the only son of our former Secretary of State, Gen- 
eral Louis De Lacey. He tendered his sword to 
our flag a year ago, and has rendered gallant serv- 
ice to his adopted banner.” 

Victor De Leon rose and warmly grasped the 
hand of the young officer. The general turned' then 
to present Lieutenant De Lacey to his bride, but 
Florence had risen quickly, and holding out both 
hands in welcome, exclaimed: “Harold, we have 
met again on Mexican soil — the last time, you 
remember, when we were but children, and 
Juarez returned to mamma her old estates. I am 
so glad to see you.” 

There w r as a deep flush for an instant upon the 
brow of General De Leon, when his bride came 
forward with outstretched hands in greeting to the 
young American, but when he found they had 
been playmates of old, their families closely allied, 
his heart warmed toward Harold, and he was bid- 
den to join the circle about them. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 217 

*Twas almost morning’s dawn, and the closing 
waltz of the ball in progress, when a uniformed 
messenger hastened to General De Leon with dis- 
patches from Villaldama of urgent import. 

The superintendent and paymaster of the 
“Minas Vie j as” had been waylaid as they were 
going out from the town to the mines to pay off 
the laborers, and had been robbed, carried away 
to the mountain fastnesses by the bandits, and held 
for ransom. A written message had been pinned 
with a small poniard to the office door of the 
major-domo , relating the facts of the seizure and 
demanding a payment of ten thousand dollars for 
the release of the prisoners — the payment to be 
made in gold at a certain isolated spot within five 
days, or death would be meted out to the captives. 

For many months along the frontier such acts 
of outlawry had been committed, and rumors had 
gained credence that all the desperate brigands on 
both sides of the Rio Grande were leagued to- 
gether under a gallant Robin Hood, who robbed 
the rich and lavished the booty upon the poor. 
This noted leader was finally yclept “El Coyote,” 
and while the rich travellers and merchants feared 
and hated him the peasantry shielded and loved 
him. 

Troops had been sent after these outlaws re- 
peatedly, but could find no trace of the daring 
band. From their almost inaccessible haunts in 
the rough mountain ranges they would spy out the 
trains of merchandise and the carriages of trav- 
ellers, and sw*oop down upon them like eagles 
after their prey, bearing away rich treasure. Dur- 
ing the fiestas , swarthy cavaliers would ride into 


218 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the villages and scatter silver and gold like chaff 
among the maimed beggars who asked alms, or 
lose piles of easy gotten coin at the lotterias. Old 
women blessed them, the pretty sehoritas smiled 
upon them with favor. Now, the 3rd Regiment 
of Cavalry must capture this band, or kill off every 
horse of the command in the chase. They must 
be stalked to their dens, captured and shot. A 
drumhead court-martial would give them short 
shrift — they must dig their own graves in the 
sand and be shot by sharpshooters on the brinks. 
Colonel Seguin had positive orders from the War 
Department, and these had been emphasized by 
General De Leon in verbal transmission. 

So at the ball there were partings in the early 
dawn, hasty breakfasting of man and horse — and 
before the glowing sun had drank up the dews of 
the night, four troops marched out of Monterey 
to find the trail of “El Coyote,” and to hunt him 
and his outlawed band to earth. For four days 
the squadron marched and counter-marched over 
the arid plains, following up the roadways, the cat- 
tle paths, making queries of the peasantry with- 
out avail. On the fifth day, Lieutenant De Lacey 
was entrusted with a detail of thirty picked sharp- 
shooters to scout around the isolated locality in 
the mountains near Villaldama, which the bandits 
had designated as the point for the delivery of the 
gold, as ransom for their prisoners. It was a deli- 
cate and dangerous mission, for the brigands were 
strong, well-armed and familiar with every foot 
of ground for leagues around. The hour of sun- 
set had been designated as the time when they 
would yield up their captives. There was a whole 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 219 

day for preparation and an ambush might be laid, 
il a reliable guide could be secured, who knew 
the mountain paths. A half-breed, who by chance 
had been befriended by one of the men in duress, 
volunteered to guide them by a circuitous route. 

Skirting along the foothills by wide detour, they 
concealed their horses in a deep ravine, leaving 
five men to guard them, and stealthily approached 
their destination at noon — the hour at which all 
Mexicans, rich and poor, take their siestas. So 
far. Lieutenant De Lacey had acted wisely, 
cautiously; but even after he had his men under 
cover, behind rocks and dense underbrush, was to 
come the tug of war. A volley from their carbines 
might slay many of the bandits, but might also 
mow down the prisoners, whom he wished to 
rescue. Every man in his command could break 
a bottle at a hundred yards, and he had cautioned 
them to aim carefully at a vulnerable spot, each 
man selecting his own victim. Thus all who 
came with the captives might be killed or badly 
wounded, and their mission easily accomplished. 
The afternoon wore slowly away, and the men in 
ambush waited breathlessly for the sun to sink 
behind the western peaks. Their carbines were 
loaded, on the half-cock, and restless fingers were 
anxious to pull the triggers. The sun set, the 
bright twilight followed, and round the moun- 
tain path came towards them a score or more of the 
outlaws in single file, preceded by their prisoners 
with hands bound behind their backs. These 
were trying moments for Harold De Lacey and 
his troopers, for it was impossible to fire until the 
bandits reached the open. On they came, swear- 


220 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

in g now at their ill luck, as none appeared to 
bring them gold. Loud oaths were uttered, and 
they railed at the luckless superintendent and pay- 
master because their families would not come to 
their relief. They did not want life, and rarely 
shed blood; but now their disappointment angered 
them. Hitherto no harm had attended those who 
came to ransom their friends. They had found 
“honor among thieves” — and messengers had gone 
back with the freed captives, bearing tales of kind 
and honorable treatment from the band. Prob- 
ably, some of them argued, there was yet time and 
the gold might be brought ere the dark shadows 
should fall. Their leader, dressed in the fur- 
belows of the Mexican dude, commanded them 
to be seated, and to be patient for a time. Obedi- 
ently they threw themselves at ease upon the sward, 
and began rolling their cigarros, when their ears 
were startled by the stern, ringing command, in 
Spanish, “Fire !” 

From the short barrels of twenty-five carbines, 
and from the surest pistol in the 3rd Regiment, 
the flames burst forth — and each bullet had found 
a lodgment. Some of the troopers had selected 
the same living target — and round the two men 
held for ransom there was a writhing, cursing, 
groaning mass of bandit flesh. A few escaped 
wounds, and crouching low looked about them for 
their enemies, only to meet with a second volley. 
Now by an unseen commander the living bandits 
were ordered to surrender, to cast their arms in a 
heap, or be shot like wolves in their tracks. The 
order was quickly obeyed, and from their ambush 
the attacking party came forth to view the havoc 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 221 

their guns had wrought. The majority of the 
twenty-one outlaws were killed outright, or were 
in the throes of death. Five were unhurt, four 
only slight wounded, and these were hastily ex- 
amined and cared for in a rude way. The captives 
held for ransom were released from their bonds 
and restored to freedom, loading their preservers 
with a thousand thanks. Brush heaps were thrown 
over the dead, and Harold De Lacey marched his 
detachment and nine prisoners back to Villaldama 
in the dusk of that day of carnage. 

The young American and his detachment of 
loyal sharpshooters had accomplished a feat of 
wonderful daring. Had their plans miscarried in 
the slighest degree, there would have been a hot 
skirmish with the bandits, and many of his troop- 
ers would have answered their final roll-call, the 
trumpet notes been sounded over their soldier 
graves. Without the loss of a man he had rescued 
the captives, slain the majority of the robber band, 
and brought in the remnant and delivered them 
up to his colonel in camp, down on the hanks of 
the flowing stream back of the mining village of' 
Villaldama. In the dusky twilight Lieutenant 
De Lacey had not observed the features of his 
prisoners, and little knew what sorrow awaited 
him on the morrow, when he was to meet in the 
broad glare of sunlight — face to face — the Robin 
Hood of the Mexican border, the far-famed "El 
Coyote.” Now he was the hero of the hour — and 
news of his brilliant coup was flashed over the 
wires to the War Department and to General De 
Leon at Monterey. 

There was national rejoicing, and Lieutenant 


222 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

De Lacey’s name was on every lip. With only 
thirty men he had killed or captured the whole 
leagued band of daring outlaws, rid the frontier 
of its greatest menace — even had “El Coyote/’ the 
famed chieftain himself, in irons in the guard 
tent of the 3rd Cavalry. 

The morning sun of the following day rose and 
cast its shining rays upon a nation’s hero — Harold 
De Lacey. 

A field court had been called in camp by Colonel 
Seguin, and swift, awful sentence had been passed 
upon the imprisoned bandits. Death! — On the 
brinks of the graves their own hands should be 
made to hollow out in the sands of the arid plain. 
Death — from the bullet wounds of a picked squad 
of sharpshooters, the firing party to be under the 
command of Lieutenant De Lacey. To him had 
fallen the honors of capture, bringing him im- 
mediate promotion in grade as his reward from the 
War Office — to him should now be assigned the 
duty of command over the sharpshooters, his voice 
should sound their death knell with the fatal 
words : “Keady, aim, fire.” Without priest, with- 
out the last sad funeral rites, their life sparks 
were doomed to be snuffed out at the setting of 
that day’s sun. The sentence had been p&ssed — 
the bandits stoically awaited its execution. 

* * * * * s}e 

In a small tent, doubly fettered with heavy 
chains and strongly guarded by armed sentries, sat 
the handsome, daring corsair of the plain — “El 
Coyote.” His lithe, agile frame was of medium - 
mould, his lustrous eyes alight with intelligence, 
his features partly shaded by his broad-brimmed 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 223 

sombrero , trimmed with the finest golden lace. An 
embroidered broadcloth jacket with silver buttons 
and interlacing chains was jauntily worn over 
his fine, ruffed linen — his slashed trousers encasing 
a pair of active limbs. Small hands and feet 
showed the parts of the Mexican dandy, and evi- 
dently “El Coyote” had in times past viewed the 
interiors of fairer bowers and brighter halls than 
now encompassed him. His sentence had been 
read him, his doom was sealed — yet there was not 
a tremor in his voice, not the quiver of a single 
muscle. His only request had been for a pencil 
and sheet of paper, and the privilege of addressing 
a line to the officer who had captured him. Colonel 
Seguin had granted the simple favor, and sent the 
penciled note to Lieutenant De Lacey. ’Twas 
only a line, a few words: “Please visit me. and 
receive my last words of farewell to life.” It was 
signed “V. M.” 

Harold De Lacey’s heart for an instant ceased 
to beat, his brain seemed paralyzed. Ah! How 
cruel was fate ! Since his childhood, his warmest, 
dearest friend had been Vidal Martinez. School- 
mates, bound by closest ties of boyish affection, 
they had drank at the same fountains, knelt at 
the same altar, looked up to the same stars for 
light. In parting, each had a promise given that 
if dark skies should bend above them they would 
seek solace in the bonds of their friendship, lend 
a helping hand. In compliance with that promise, 
Harold De Lacey had tearfully sailed away from 
his native shores to seek shelter beneath the roof 
of his dearest comrade — only to find that the 
earth had swallowed him up in its great vortex, 


224 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

leaving the bereaved family to mourn his absence, 
bow their heads at sorrow’s altar. 

Now he and Vidal were in the same camp, under 
the folds of the same flag — but with the changed 
relations of captor and captive, executioner and 
condemned. 

In supreme moments, in trying times, Harold 
De Lacey was quick to act, quick to plan. But 
now his brain was on fire — his mind stunned, 
blank, bare of resource. Vidal Martinez, though 
in the guise of “El Coyote,” must be saved — yet 
how was his fate to be averted? No appeal to the 
highest court in the land could stay the sentence 
of the most noted bandit leader of Mexico, no 
Divine interposition could be hoped for — and his 
must be the helping hand, he the savior of his 
boyhood’s friend. 

Rising from his camp chair, at last, with a de- 
termined light shining in his eyes, he strode 
rapidly to the tent of his colonel, and begged per- 
mission to hear what the condemned man might 
have to say in farewell, before being led forth to 
execution. 

Lieutenant De Lacey’s request was granted, the 
order issued to the guard to allow the private con- 
ference with the bandit chief, the sentries were 
withdrawn from ear shot, the door of the guard 
tent closed, and Harold and Vidal were alone , the 
arms of the executioner around the fettered body 
of the condemned in fond embrace. 

Lips that never quivered at sentence of death, 
dark eyes that looked unflinchingly into the faces 
of those who sealed his doom, now trembled, were 
filled with scalding tears. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 225 

“Ah! Harold, my friend, my comrade of old, I 
came near going to my tomb on the sands without 
a word, a murmur. But I wanted to send a mes- 
sage of farewell to my gray-haired father, my de- 
voted old mother. Chance made me ‘El Coyote/ 
chance made you my captor. My hands have 
never yet shed the blood of my victims. I have 
only taken treasure from the rich to give it back 
to the poor. I controlled a turbulent band with 
hand of steel, and not a soul but you, Harold, 
must ever know that Vidal Martinez dug the nar- 
row grave of ‘El Coyote/ Promise me this, and 
tell my father and mother only that to your knowl- 
edge I died bravely, with face uncovered to the 
foe. My breast is shielded by a coat of mail, 
which the guard has not noticed — bid the firing 
party aim at my temples, let death come quickly. 
Now, amigo mio, adios , adios ” 

The slender, fettered hands were uplifted then, 
and drew down the tear-stained face of Harold 
De Lacey, 

“Do not grieve, Harry, and though we be men — 
reckless, hardened, daring — kiss me as a mother 
would her child and some day bear that kiss of 
death to her who gave me birth, and imprint it 
upon her cheek as her son’s last farewell.” 

Their lips met — the clouded brain of Harold 
De Lacey had a silver lining. There was a star of 
hope now gleaming through the rifts, irradiating 
the sky. Hastily he unfolded his plan to Vidal, 
and he could, he must save him. 

“Will your shirt of mail withstand the leaden 
bullets of carbines at short range ?” he asked, and 
received an affirmative reply. 


226 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Then it was arranged that his execution shonkl 
be the last, when shadows were falling. Vidal 
should kneel on the brink of his grave, and as the 
leaden hail should strike his breast, where the 
sharpshooters would be directed to fire, he was 
to fall backward, quiver as if in the throes of 
death, and close his eyes to scenes of life. A few 
shovels of sand would fill the shallow grave, the 
troops would march back to their camp, the dark- 
ness of night would hover over the arid plain— 
Vidal Martinez would be free, to flee across the 
Rio Grande, where lay safety, life, hope. 

* * * * * * * 

When that day’s sun was blazing above the west- 
ern slopes two hours before its setting, Colonel 
Manuel Seguin marched his squadron, dismounted, 
out of the village of Villaldama along the old 
roadway towards Lampazos. In carts followed the 
condemned bandits, under strong guard, going to 
their death on the sands. This sun would be the 
last to cast its rays upon them, for the last time 
their eyes had looked upon moon and stars. Two 
miles out in the midst of the dry, sandy cactus 
plain, the command was halted and faced toward 
the east. Resting on their arms, the troops 
watched the condemned men hollowing out their 
shallow beds of death in the loose sands. By sun- 
set, the last earthly tenements of the bandits were 
dug, and they were commanded to kneel upon 
the several brinks, into which their maimed, pulse- 
less bodies were soon to fall. The guards now 
placed bandages over their eyes, bidding them, 
“Adios, vaya usted con Dios ” 

On the extreme left of the line of condemned 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 227 

prisoners, knelt “El Coyote.” The firing party 
had taken up their position on the right, under 
command of Lieutenant De Lacey. They were to 
be shot, one by one, — and when the smoke had 
cleared away and their lifeless bodies been covered 
with a few shovels of sand, the day’s sad work 
would be ended, the bandits be with their God. 

“Ready, aim, fire,” had eight times rung out in 
stern command, and eight quivering bodies fallen, 
bleeding on the sands. Again had the firing party 
been marched onward down the line, to be halted 
and faced toward the upright, unflinching body of 
one of the condemned. 

Now “El Coyote” was to meet his doom — the 
Mexican border no longer to tremble at mention 
of his name. A moment more, and the spark of 
life would die out upon his heart’s altar. 

From afar came the vesper chimes from the 
ancient bells upon the old iglesia at Villaldama, 
which had rung out their silver tones across the 
plains for three long centuries. The day was 
done, the sun had sunk to rest, the twilight hov- 
ered over the vegas. 

“Load” — and five carbines were fed with the 
leaden messengers of death. He had not flinched, 
but knelt as if in prayer to his God. A ringing, 
musical voice, which for years had been dear to 
him as that of his boyhood’s friend, now gave the 
preliminary command: 

“Ready” — and for the first time “El Coyote” 
cried out, begging that his eyes might be un- 
bandaged and his chains taken off, so that he 
might meet death face to face, go bravely and un- 
fettered to his last long sleep. 


228 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Lieutenant De Lacey caused his squad to recover 
arms, and parleyed with the colonel, asking if the 
last wish of the brigand chief might be gratified. 
Colonel Seguin was a brave soldier, and felt that, 
if he himself was condemned to death, he, too, 
would like to face his executioners. So the last re- 
quest of “El Coyote” was courteously allowed, and 
as the long shadows were falling down the moun- 
tain sides, Harold De Lacey again cautioned his 
squad of sharpshooters to aim at the centre of the 
breast — and commanded at last : “Eire !” 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 229 


CHAPTER XXI. 

For three and forty years General Jack Heath- 
cote, commanding the Department of Texas, had 
served his flag in peace and war — since his gradua- 
tion at the Point as a boy of twenty-one. Now, in 
the year '86, he had reached the age limit of sixty- 
four, and was relegated by law to the shades of 
retirement. His army record was stainless, and 
he was endeared to every officer and enlisted man 
who ever had the good fortune to serve under 
him. Fully as dear to them all was his dark- 
eyed, sweet-voiced wife, Juanita, who had shared 
his life under the starry banner for nearly two- 
score years. The snows of age had fallen upon 
their heads, yet their hearts were still as young as 
when they stood at the altar in New Orleans. 

Now the old flag needed them no longer, whither 
should they turn? Their children had grown to 
mature years and left the home roof — Florence as 
wife to Victor De Leon, Roi as mining engineer 
at the “Minas Viejas,” near Villaldama. So back 
would they also turn to Mexico, and find a lodg- 
ment near their offspring. Monterey was chosen 
as a temporary abiding-place, and hither they 
wended their way with their household. 

Roi Heathcote was installed in the ^Hospidage,” 
the only roof offered to strangers in the mining 
village, and rode out daily to the old mines, which 


230 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

he was now developing with the latest improve- 
ments in engineering. He had fitted himself well 
for his chosen profession, and though out among 
the arid plains and rough mountain ranges of 
“La tierra de Dios y libertad,” he was content. 
These old mines had been worked by the Spaniards , 
three centuries before, and were still rich in valu- 
able metals. His mother’s interest was in his 
hands, and a broad roadway had been built from 
the pueblo of Villaldama out to the hills and 
around the mountain sides. A smelter was erected 
down at Bustamente on the line of railway, and 
American ideas and inventions were worked with 
Mexican labor. Roi and Harold De Lacey often 
met at the h©tel table, for the troop which he now 
commanded as first lieutenant, in the absence of 
his captain, was quartered in the village. The 
old childish camaraderie bound them now in closer 
bonds. Harold needed companionship, for his 
heart was grieving sore for a sight of Jessie 
Thorne, for the touch of that gentle hand ; but he 
had brought disgrace upon himself, released her 
from the engagement, and could not ask her to re- 
new it, or come as his wife to a foreign land, whose 
flag he served on the frontier, amid daily dangers. 

Monterey was the proudest city in the sun- 
kissed land of Mexico, for within her gates an “in- 
ternational baby” had been born — a son and heir 
to General Victor De Leon and his sweet wife, 
Florence. Their marriage had formed strong ties 
between the sister republics. The news was flashed 
all over the land, and broad headlines in the papers 
announced the arrival of the “international baby 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 231 

boy” in the home of the commander-in-chief of 
Mexico’s army. The event must be properly cele- 
brated, and the Mexican Congress passed a special 
enactment bestowing upon the male child of their 
chief the “rank and pay” of a colonel of cavalry. 

The nation rejoiced, the populace and army 
drank deep draughts of wine to the health of par- 
ents and child. Far into the night, long after Roi 
Heathcote had been bound by slumber’s chain, the 
officers of the 3rd Mexican Cavalry held high 
revel in the cantina of the old hotel at Villaldama. 
There were flushed faces, sparkling eyes, witty 
lips — and Major Gonzales, bubbling over with 
merriment, rose on unsteady limbs and proposed 
yet another toast to “The wise child that knows 
his own father.” But that toast was never drunk 
on that sad night. 

With blazing eyes and rapid stride, Lieutenant 
De Lacey rushed to the side of his major, com- 
manding the squadron at Villaldama, and planted 
a blow upon his cheek that felled him, like a 
lightning stroke. Drawing his card, he tossed it 
upon the prostrate form, and followed by the ap- 
proving eyes of every officer present, turned away 
to quickly seek Roi Heathcote in his chamber, 
wrapped in peaceful slumber. To Roi he confided 
only that for personal insult he had lifted his 
hand against his commander and struck him a 
stinging blow in the face. The consequences under 
the army code of Mexico must first be personal 
satisfaction on the field of honor — afterwards, if 
he survived, to suffer the ignominy of court- 
martial and dismissal for striking his superior 
officer. 


232 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Roi, roused from deep slumber, was slow 10 
grasp the full import of Harold’s offense- — for he 
had spent all of his life beneath the Stars and 
Stripes, where dueling is strictly forbidden, where 
an officer, if grossly insulted by a superior and 
should strike him, would be leniently dealtfwith by 
a court upon the introduction of evidence of justi- 
fication. He questioned Harold closely with refer- 
ence to the act or words of insult, but all that he 
could gain from him was- that he was more than 
justifiable in striking Major Gonzales, would be 
perfectly right if he should take his life. Finally, 
then, Roi procured him writing materials, and 
Harold De Lacey penned a brief resignation* of 
his first lieutenant’s commission to the Wan De- 
partment for urgent reasons — and Roi promised 
to go forthwith and send the night message by tele- 
graph to the Secretary of War. 

As he was passing out through the cantina , there 
was a fierce babel of voices, but at sight of Roi 
Heathcote a hush fell upon* them. Major Gon- 
zales had been partly* sobered* by the blow, and his 
brother officers were seekingi to stem the tide of 
his wrath- and explain, to him the enormity of his 
offense in giving such a toast, even in jest and 
while merry with wine — but he insisted upon a 
duel, though agreeing that no charges could be 
preferred f which would bring out the disgraceful 
facts. Over the urgent protests of all, Major Gon- 
zales issued his challenge for a duel at early dawn. 
A captain unwillingly assumed the responsibility 
of acting as his second. When Roi returned sadly 1 
to the hotel he was accosted by this officer with an 
inquiry for Lieut. De Lacey. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 233 

“He is in my chamber, sir,” replied Roi, feel- 
ing in his heart that this man was commissioned 
to make terms for the duel, which could not be 
averted. 

“Will you grant me the favor of calling upon 
him there?” queried Captain Roderiquez. 

“Certainly, sir,” answered Roi — and then made 
up his mind to act for Harold, in this his hour of 
trouble. Closeted together within the four walls 
of Roi Heathcote’s room, the captain confessed 
that his duty was an unpleasant one, but de.-> 
manded by their code, if either party insisted 
upon satisfaction on honor’s field. Major Gon- 
zales, while deeply under the influence of wine, had 
not only insulted Lieut. De Lacey, but also the 
whole nation — to the great regret of every officer 
present. No charges would be preferred, the 
matter would rest upon the result of the duel. He 
could not anticipate that either party to the hos- 
tile meeting would wish more than the simple 
satisfaction of firing at his opponent, perhaps 
giving a slight flesh wound. Both the major and 
lieutenant were experts with firearms — the affair 
on the field would close hostilities, apologies would 
restore amicable relations. 

So the details were quickly arranged. Pistols 
were chosen, at ten paces, lots to be cast for first 
shot. If, after both had fired, and neither had 
fallen, the challenger and challenged desired to 
continue the duel, it was to be conducted in the 
same manner, under the same rules. The meet- 
ing would take place at the first break of dawn, 
out upon the roadway, one mile to the east. 

After Captain Roderiquez had bowed himself 


234 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

out of the apartment, Eoi glanced at his watch 
and noted that it was two o’clock. Early dawn 
would, within two hours, paint the eastern skies 
with rosy flush, and preparation must soon be 
made for the duel. Harold, with bowed head, 
sat brooding over the past, and in one grand pano- 
rama the* forms and scenes of his childhood, youth 
and early manhood rose up before him. His life 
had been filled with light and shadow, joy and sor- 
row — and the twenty-six years of his pilgrimage 
had left its mark of care upon his brow, filled 
other hearts with mourning. He had sown the 
wind, he was now reaping the harvest — for as he 
had sown, so he must reap. His eyes might never 
look upon the morning’s sun — for Major Gon- 
zales was a dead shot, and in times past had sent 
several to their early graves on the field of honor. 
Would the major now seek to send a leaden mes- 
senger of death into his heart or brain, so that his 
tongue might never reveal the cause of quarrel? 
No matter — the tomb would chasten all sorrow, 
blot out all stains from his escutcheon, and time 
and tide would in years to come o’ersweep the foot- 
prints of grief. ’Twere better far, than to live one 
as he had lived — an alien, an exile from his heart’s 
dearest treasure. A Nemesis had forever followed 
him like a shadow — and when he had lifted the 
cup of joy to his lips an unseen hand, would dash 
it from him. 

In the event chance should favor him, and in 
the toss of the coin he should win the first shot, 
he would aim at the right arm of his adversary 
and wound him only — he must not brand himself 
with the sin of Cain, and. take away the life of his 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 235 

brother officer, be forever haunted by the life-blood 
ebbing away on the sands. 

Roi bent over him soothingly no, , and said: 
“Harry, I am in the dark as to the primary cause 
of this duel; but evidently you were in the right, 
and your adversary will hardly seek to give you a 
mortal wound. Captain Roderiquez assures me 
that no charges will be preferred, and if all is 
well you can withdraw your resignation on the 
morrow and remain in this service, in which you 
have gained so many laurels/’ 

But Harold De Lacey replied: “Ho, Roi. If I 
am not badly wounded, I will leave Mexico at once 
and return to my old flag. There is a cavalry 
troop over at the garrison in Laredo, on the Texas 
side, and I will enlist under the Stais and Stripes, 
taking an assumed name, and strive for a commis- 
sion through the ranks. I was never cut out for 
any other career than a military one — and my 
star of destiny will ever guide me to a standard. 
It is fate, Roi.” 

“In the years of my boyhood, Harry, I often 
thought of the same plan ; hut my father discour- 
aged me in it, and so I finally chose the civic 
profession of a mining engineer. Success is at- 
tending my efforts, but if there is ever a war be- 
tween the United States and a foreign power, I 
will be among the first to tender my services to the 
old flag that I was born under at Camp Verde.” 

“Roi, if I fall in this duel, tell my father and 
Cousin Mary — all who know or care for me, that 
I was in the right, and acted upon the inherent 
instincts of a man of honor. My horse, my sword 
— the treasured keepsakes which you will find 


236 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

among my effects — are to be yours, my life-long 
friend; and I trust you will keep’ them as memen- 
tos of the past, sad reminders of the child, the 
boy, the man so strangely ruled by destiny.” 

Aurora, rising from her couch in the far east, 
and streaking the skies with rosy fingers, looked 
down upon an arid, sandy plain, a mile eastward 
from the sleepy mining village of Villaldama. In 
the roadway stood a covered coach, containing as 
its occupants the swarthy cochero and an army 
surgeon. Three cavalry chargers were held by 
mounted orderlies, a Mexican servant was in 
charge of Eoi Heathcote’s mount. Out on the 
south side, a hundred yards away, were the dim 
forms of three officers of the 3d Mexican Cavalry 
and a gentleman in civilian garb. A dueling 
spot had been selected, where there was an open 
space among the cactus and chapparal. Few 
words were spoken, the preliminaries being fol- 
lowed as arranged. Ten paces were stepped off, 
Major Gonzales and Lieut. De Lacey taking 
their positions facing each other, in the early 
morning light, upon the sands. The fatal coin 
was tossed — and fortune favored Major Gonzales. 
His was to be the first shot, and a fierce light 
glittered in his eyes. His hand was not quite 
steady after the deep potations of the midnight 
hour, and his brain was still clogged and foggy. 
He had been struck down by a blow from the hand 
of the man who now faced him, and he would send 
a bullet crashing through his brain — for “dead 
men tell no tales.” The secret of that blow, that 
hostile meeting on the sands, must never reach 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 237 

the ears of General Victor De Leon. Well Major 
Gonzales knew that Harold De Lacey’s lips had 
not revealed the cause of quarrel — for he felt that 
Roi Heathcote himself would shoot him down in 
his tracks, if it had come to his ears that he had 
cast a defamatory shadow on the fair name of his 
sister, by a drunken toast. 

Harold De Lacey — standing uncovered, as if at 
“attention” in the presence of his superior officer, 
his fair hair blown back from his temples by the 
gentle breeze, his blue eyes riveted upon the face 
of his foe, calm, erect, fearless, with his pistol 
pointed muzzle downward to the sand — awaited 
the drop of the panuelo , the given signal for the 
shot which might seal his doom. The critical 
moment came — and Major Gonzales took deliber- 
ate aim, through bleary eyes, and fired. The 
bullet whizzed across the ten paces on the sands 
and struck the fair, broad temple of Harold De 
Lacey, and a crimson tide gushed from the 
wound, filling his eyes, overspreading his raiment, 
and making him stagger backward a pace from 
the concussion. The shock was momentary, and 
again he stood in place, though blinded by the 
rush of blood. The bullet had only grazed his 
temple, cutting the skin at the edge of his fair 
hair. 

“Diablo ! My aim was bad” — exclaimed Major 
Gonzales, and his swarthy face blanched, an ashen 
gray settled upon his features. 

Roi Heathcote’s voice now rang out loud and 
clear: “The scoundrel intended to murder you, 
Harold. Kill him as you would a dog, or I will 
shoot him, myself, without pity or remorse.” 


238 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

And when the signal was given for the second 
time, Harold De Lacey slowly lifted his pistol, 
glanced along the barrel, and — blinded by the 
crimson torrent, his ears ringing with Roi Heath- 
cote’s words — fired straight and true at the heart 
of his cowardly foe. The bulky form of Major 
Gonzales swayed, tottered, fell — upon the bed of 
sand, which he had intended that Harold De Lacey 
should fill. 

“ Justice has been done” — excitedly exclaimed 
Captain Roderiquez, as the surgeon came forward 
and knelt over the prostrate form to see if there 
was still life and hope. Rising, the man of medi- 
cine made the sign of the cross, looked upward for 
a moment appealingly to the bending skies — and 
turned to Harold De Lacey. His wound was but 
a scratch, and the blood was sponged away, as- 
tringents applied, a stitch or two taken, and only 
a small scar would remain with him through life, 
as evidence of that sad meeting in the early dawn. 

Roi and Harold now galloped in to the village, 
leaving behind them the never-to-be-forgotten 
scene of the “duel to the death.” In an hour, 
Harold gathered together his belongings from the 
camp, and entrusted them to the care of Roi 
Heathcote. The morning train on the “Inter- 
nacional Mexicana” bore him away from the vil- 
lage, from his troop and flag — from that haunting 
scene of death upon the sands — back to his own 
native shores, over which floated the Stars and 
Stripes. 

For some days Harold De Lacey remained at 
the hotel in Nuevo Laredo, awaiting the healing 
of his wound, and news from the War Depart- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 239 

ment relative to his resignation. Daily he wa„lked 
down to the banks of the broadly flowing waters 
of the Kio Grande, and looked across at the land 
where floated his old starry banner. His ear 
could catch the sweetly familiar notes of the 
cavalry trumpet on the Texas shore, and through 
the twilight came floating the sweet chimes of the 
vesper bells, mingled with the echoes of the re- 
treat gun in the garrison. Was there balm on 
the borders of his native land, which could heal 
wounds of mind, heart, body? Could he throw 
off every vestige of identity, and begin life anew, 
amid new scenes, new associations? Could he 
assume a name, and crown it with honor? Was it 
possible to change the orbit of his star of destiny, 
cause the old to set, a new to rise ? 

On Christmas eve the sweet-toned bells were 
sounding the keynotes of hope for his future, a 
requiem over the grave of his past. As they were 
chiming, a man lay dying in the hotel which 
sheltered Harold De Lacey, an American who on 
the previous night had been fatally stabbed at a 
baile , and was now in the throes of death. He 
was without friends, a stranger in a strange land, 
and could not speak the language of Mexico. In 
pity, Harold had gone to the chamber at which 
death had knocked, and offered aid, sought to alle- 
viate his distress, become his faithful nurse. But 
the sands of his life were running fast, and the 
wounded man was beyond human aid — must soon 
face his God, and he was ill-prepared. When the 
physician had bidden him make quick prepara- 
tions for death, and left the chamber — left him 
in the care of Harold De Lacey — the dying man 


240 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

falteringly unfolded a sad tale of bright youth, 
of home and loved ones, of his college life in Vir- 
ginia, his admission to the bar and early success, 
of marriage and rupture of the sacred relation, of 
reckless habits and exile, and now death on a for- 
eign strand. The dying man was tall, fair, and in 
feature and figure bore a slight resemblance to 
Harold De Lacey. Nature had committed here 
one of her strange freaks. A sudden thought en- 
tered the mind of Harold, and he said : 

“My friend, our journeys through life have led 
us both along similar paths. Your life is now 
ending, and I am going to ask of you a strange 
favor. I wish to abandon my own name forever. 
Give me yours, as your dying bequest. I promise 
never to stain it further, and to seek in every way 
henceforth to take up your life as you leave it. 
I will strive to untangle the mingled threads, to 
blot out your footprints, which others should not 
follow. If in years to come, chance throws me 
among your loved ones, under the roof of your 
old home, they shall not be ashamad to welcome 
me as son and brother.” 

A swift, glad light stole into the dimmed eyes 
of the dying man, and he answered : 

“Take it, kind friend, and crown it with the 
laurels which I sought in youth — and when you, 
too, rest upon your couch of death, may the good 
and pure shed bitter tears over your loss. ? Tis all 
I have to give — except yon valise, which holds my 
papers and little treasures of the past. They 
will tell you the sad tale of my ill-spent life — fit 
you to assume the name and character, which- I 
now bequeath you.” The death damp was fast 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 241 

gathering upon his brow, and Harold De Lacey 
hurriedly said : 

“With your permission, I will see that the last 
sad rites are properly performed. Now, in life, 
we will exchange names, I taking yours and be- 
coming Malvern Erskine — you to fill the lone 
tomb of Harold De Lacey. Quick ! Is your heart 
satisfied ? Have you no qualms ? 

Between his gasps, with head pillowed upon the 
arm of his last friend — a friend in time of need — 
the dying man said: 

“I am satisfied — I die in peace — Gc 1 bless you.” 
And he was dead — far from the scenes of his 
youth, from all who had known his past — yet his 
name would still live, be strangely reincarnated. 

At the hotel, it was thought the two men were 
relatives — perhaps half-brothers — but as both were 
strangers, and the glad Christmas eve celebrations 
at their height, few questions were asked. In the 
early morning the grave was dug in the cemetery, 
the casket containing the lifeless clay lowered into 
the earth from which it came — the priest chanted 
a requiem, and “ashes to ashes” were cast. A 
small white stone, bearing only the name — Harold 
De Lacey — was placed at the head, and Christmas 
bells rang loud and clear their silvery chimes. 

H: * sj* H* * * * 

At Fort McIntyre, on the banks of the turbid 
Bio Grande, the cavalry troop and two companies 
of infantry had finished their Christmas dinners 
in the year *86 — and every heart in the three brick 
barracks was full of glad cheerfulness, every 
stomach satiated with the feast of turkey and its 
concomitants. There was laughter and song 


242 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

everywhere, even over at the guard-house among 
the prisoners. 

No. 1, who was walking his post on the porch 
in front, had just called for the corporal of the 
guard and asked him humorously, if he couldn’t 
loosen a button or two of his blouse at the waist 
line, for — “Faith, Corporal,” he said, “I do be so 
full of the faste over at the Cumpany, that I’m 
bustin’ wid it.” Corporal Roberto Miramon, who 
was in charge of the guard, had enlisted at San 
Antonio, nearly two years before, for “general ser- 
vice.” He had been sent down to a company on 
the river for assignment, by reason of the fact that 
he spoke the Spanish thoroughly and might be 
useful as an interpreter, for he was highly edu- 
cated in both English and Spanish. He was a 
handsome fellow, making a fine appearance in 
his infantry uniform — and Captain Smyth had 
taken a fancy to him, because of his neatness and 
soldierly qualities, appointing him at the end of 
the year as a “non-com.” 

While the corporal stood now in the doorway, 
laughing at the sally of the sentinel from Tip- 
perary, a hack was driven rapidly through the 
gates, from Laredo, and rolled along the gravelled 
roadway/ in front of the barracks, on .to the guard- 
house, where the Mexican ponies were reined in 
quickly by the hackman, and the tall, blonde 
civilian within asked where he would find the quar- 
ters of the cavalry captain. No. 1 halted on his 
beat and facing outward came quickly to “present 
arms” — which salute the blonde stranger invol- 
untarily returned. Bringing his piece promptly 
to the “carry” and “port,” the sentry replied in 
his rich brogue : 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 243 

“Capting Welsh’s quarthers be ferninst the wist 
ind of the opposite row, Major” — and the hack 
wheeled to the left about and rolled on past the 
adjutant’s office to the point designated; but not 
until the stranger and the corporal had exchanged 
quick, startled glances of recognition. 

“That be the paymaster, Major Watkins, who 
used to fetch us our ‘dough,’ Corporal,” said 
Private Flannigan. “I’d know him beyant the 
parade by his long, droopin’ mustache. Sure me 
peepers looked fur him wid tears in ’em ivry two 
months, until he’d bring us de coin. Faith, an’ 
I’m glad to see he’s out of his throuble. The 
President pardined him lasht week, so I hear.” 
Muttering on to himself about the good old days, 
when Major Watkins was the paymaster on the 
Eio Grande, before he had gotten into trouble 
about the poker game on the train with card 
sharks, who had drugged and robbed him of gov- 
ernment funds, Private Flannigan again walked 
his post, pausing now and then at the north end 
of the porch to look across at Captain Welsh’s 
quarters, which the stranger had entered. 

The cavalry captain, who for nearly twenty years 
had commanded the troop then stationed at Fort 
McIntyre, had just donned his fine raiment pre- 
paratory to seating himself at his three o’clock 
Christmas dinner. He himself had answered the 
bell, and bidden the blonde stranger enter, wonder- 
ing what business brought him thither at such an 
hour. 

“Captain,” he said, “I would like to enlist in 
your troop, if you have a vacancy. My name is 
Erskine.” 


244 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Captain Welsh for an instant cast his keen, 
discerning eyes upon the frank face, the regular 
features, the tall, erect figure of the applicant, 
and inquired if he had any acquaintance with 
cavalry service. “I was educated at a military 
school, sir, and know the duties of a soldier. I 
am a good horseman and fair marksman. I seek 
a commission through the ranks, Captain.” 

Captain Welsh quickly replied: 

“I will be glad to aid you, Erskine, for your 
ambition is a laudable one. Report to the first 
sergeant over at my troop barracks and he will 
make arrangements for you temporarily. Look 
around for a day or two, and if you still desire to 
enter my command I will enlist you.” 

So Troop “A” received its Christmas present of 
an “old-time recruit” — and Malvern Erskine was 
welcomed among them, to be nick-named “the 
Major” from that day, to bear the title for so many 
years of service among them, that few in his regi- 
ment even knew his name. He was “the Major” 
— and the title was a sufficient identification 
throughout the rank and file, under the standard 
which he faithfully and honorably served. 

* * * * * 1 * * 

Down on the banks of the Eio Grande, back of 
the guard-house, in the twilight of that Christmas 
day, Corpoial Miramon and Recruit Erskine met 
by appointment — and hands were clasped in loving 
grasp, two manly hearts were pressed in close em- 
brace, the friends of long years of fleeting youth 
met again under the folds of the Stars and Stripes, 
and trembling lips whispered to the night winds : 
“Harold”— “Yidal.” 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 245 


CHAPTER XXII. 

At 10 o’clock on a September’s morning in the 
year ’88, the 18th Cavalry, comprising twelve 
troops, dusty, bronzed and heavily bearded, halted 
for their last rest after a four months’ march; 
from the top of the long slope they looked down 
upon Camp Meadows, in the Black Hills of South 
Dakota. 

In May the order had been issued by the War 
Department for the regiment to change station 
with the “Unlucky 7th Horse” — and from their 
isolated stations along the Rio Grande, and inte- 
rior garrisons, the troops had concentrated at Fort 
Concho and commenced the long march to the 
“land of the Dakotas.” The route lay for more 
than two thousand miles across the plains of 
Texas, the Indian Territory, Kansas, Nebraska, a 
corner of Colorado, then into the old hunting 
grounds of the Sioux along the borders of the 
frowning Black Hills. No regiment bearing the 
standard of any nation had ever been called upon 
before to march such a long distance across an im- 
mense continent. The change of station was from 
the borders of Mexico, a land of perpetual sun- 
shine, to the upper waters of the Missouri, near 
the Canadian frontier, with its fields of snow and 
ice for nine months of the year. But the long, 
weary miles were marched under the torrid skies 


246 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

of a hot summer, the regiment being followed by 
a long baggage train, which stretched out on the 
dusty roadway far to the rear of the long columns 
of troops, divided into three battalions. 

Now from their last halt, the gallant 18th could 
cast their eyes down upon the broad, grassy parade 
of oval shape, surrounded by the Officer’s Row on 
the south and west by the long frame double- 
barracks, the commissary, administration and 
quarter-master buildings on north and east. The 
Stars and Stripes were floating from the tall flag- 
staff, welcoming its new defenders — the wooded 
hills on the western slopes rose frowning from the 
encircled vale, through which coursed a crystal 
stream with shaded banks. Far to the north was 
lifted the towering form of Bare Butte, like a 
giant sentinel guarding the out-spreading plain. 
The trumpets sounded “Mount” — and “Forward, 
March” — the troops swung into saddle jauntily, 
riding at last into Camp Meadows to the loudly 
welcoming notes of “Home, Sweet Home.” 

When Malvern Erskine — who had been assigned, 
immediately after enlistment, to duty as clerk in 
his troop office — had read the order changing his 
station to an interior post, before concentration 
for the march to Dakota in the following year, he 
rejoiced within himself. He was glad to leave the 
scenes around him, was anxious to go far away 
from sad reminders of the meeting upon the 
sands, from the lone tomb across the sweeping 
waters of the Rio Grande, where the small white 
shaft bore the simple inscription: “Harold De 
Lacey.” 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 247 

Often, in the passing months of service at Fort 
McIntyre, his footsteps had borne him to the ceme- 
tery, and he had planted flowers upon the grave 
of the slumberer there, who upon his death-bed 
had bequeathed all he had to give — his tarnished 
name. The old sexton had been liberally rewarded 
for his care of the silent tomb, and grass and 
flowering plants bloomed upon it in rich profusion. 
When the day arrived for the departure of Troop 
“A,” Corporal Miramon and Private Erskine 
sadly spoke their farewells. It had been noticed 
from the first that a strange warm friendship had 
sprung up between them — they were inseparable 
companions for the twilight stroll after "Retreat,” 
and in hours off duty. Both had won the respect 
of their commanders, and it was probable that they 
would in time be recommended for commissions as 
second lieutenants. 

The months rolled on of cavalry duty on the 
Texas frontier, and Captain Welsh had noted with 
pleasure the habitual good conduct and soldierly 
bearing of his troop clerk — Private Malvern Ers- 
kine. When the first vacancy occurred among his 
non-commissioned officers, the captain appointed 
him as corporal, laying the foundation stone to his 
gradual upbuilding, and rapid advancement in 
grade. Soon after this appointment had been 
made in Troop “A,” the regiment was concentrated 
at Fort Concho, and with standard and guidons 
flying to the music of che band, marched away 
northward to take station amid the great tribe of 
the Sioux. 

On an August day, beneath the fierce rays of the 
glaring sun, a trooper in Captain Welsh's com- 


248 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

mand became faint and sick from the dnst and heat 
of the march, and asked permission to fall out of 
the ranks. Corporal Erskine was detailed to ac- 
company the trooper — and they wheeled out of the 
long column, seeking the shade by the roadside. 
The corporal was an old campaigner, and was in- 
ured by his Mexican service to fatiguing marches 
under blazing skies, and was as fresh as a lark. 
He tenderly cared for the sick trooper, bathing 
his head with water from his canteen and permit- 
ting him to swallow a small draught to moisten 
his parched lips. The wagon train rolled by in 
continuous procession, and was fading away in the 
distance. A camp would soon be made ahead, 
and Corporal Erskine did not deem it wise to ride 
onward, until late in the afternoon, when the 
sick trooper had fully recovered. Around a bend 
in the roadway now galloped the quartermaster of 
the 18th Cavalry — Lieutenant O’Malley — his face 
flushed with liquor, his seat in the saddle un- 
steady, looking for trouble, for some one upon 
whom he could vent his spleen. The day had been 
unusually hot, the progress of the wagon train 
often delayed by breakdowns, or little accidents, 
which caused delays. Lieutenant O’Malley was 
wrathy — his bottle empty. Out in a shady retreat 
by the roadside, he now espied Corporal Erskine 
and the sick trooper seated upon the sward, far 
behind the command, and he reined in his foam- 
ing steed to let loose the vials of his wrath. 

“What are you men doing here — skulking so 
far behind? Did you intend to desert and get 
away with your full equipments? Well, I guess 
not. Mount up now and be quick about it. I’ll 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 249 

march you skulkers in, myself, and turn you over 
as deserters.” Corporal Erskine rose to His feet, 
and with blazing eyes confronted Lieutenant 
O’Malley. His anger was at fever heat, but by 
powerful effort he controlled himself and salut- 
ing, said: 

“I have never yet deserted my colors, nor dis- 
graced the uniform of ‘blue and buff’ I wear. This 
man is sick and faint from the heat. He will not 
be able to ride into the camp for several hours. 
I had my orders to fall out with him.” 

Lieutenant O’Malley’s thin suit of red hair now 
stood on end with towering passion, the freckles 
on his broad face showing in bold relief against 
his cheeks at white heat with madness, and he ex- 
claimed : 

“You lie, and you know it. It won’t go with 
me. Mount up at once, both of you. I’ll march 
you damned skulkers in, or know the reason why.” 

Corporal Erskine’s hand unconsciously reached 
for his carbine, and in the moment he could have 
shot the quartermaster through the heart, without 
feeling the slightest remorse ; but the desire 
passed and he answered: “I am an enlisted man, 
and respect the shoulder straps you wear, even 
though it took an act of Congress to make you an 
officer and a gentleman ; but I have my orders 
from your superior in rank — Captain Welsh — 
and I will obey them to the letter, and not be in- 
terfered with by any drunken bum.” When these 
angry, insubordinate words passed the lips of the 
corporal, Lieutenant O’Malley hurriedly threw 
himself from his saddle and dropping the reins 
over his horse’s head, rushed like a frantic bull 


250 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

towards him, pulling off his blouse as he advanced. 
“You don’t have to respect my shoulder straps. 
I’ll give you such a trouncing that, hereafter, 
you’ll respect me as long as you live,” exclaimed 
the maddened quartermaster. With gleaming 
eyes and twitching muscles, Lieutenant O’Malley 
reeled forward with his bulky form, and drew back 
his ponderous arm to strike down the tall, blonde 
soldier who stood in his path. 

Corporal Erskine suddenly crouched low, and 
rising with panther-like spring, planted his 
gauntleted fist full upon the “Adam’s apple” of his 
raging foe. The blow would have felled an ox — 
and Lieutenant O’Malley quickly measured his 
length upon the sward, gasping, panting for 
breath. At last, he rose to a sitting posture, and 
still dazed he looked long and earnestly at the 
bearded face and tall, slender, erect figure of Cor- 
poral Erskine, who stood over him. 

“By G — d! I was never knocked down but 
once before by a blow like that, and I was only a 
harum-scarum boy then. I know you, now — 
Harold De Lacey. The years have passed swiftly 
by, since we met in the ring down by the stables 
at West Point. You licked me then, you have 
licked me now. We buried the hatchet at that 
time, so we will say nothing of this affair. Let 
the Mead past bury its dead.’ What the devil are 
you doing here in the 18th as a corporal, and in 
Welsh’s troop, too?” 

Corporal Erskine let him ramble on in his dazed 
way, and when he had finished, calmly said : “The 
name of Harold De Lacey no longer exists. I 
wrote it in the sands and let the waves wash it 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 251 

out. My name now and hereafter is — Malvern 
Erskine.” 

“All right, Erskine, promise me that so long as 
you are in the army, you will never mention this 
meeting of ours to-day, and on my honor I will 
respect your secret, drunk or sober. Make that 
sick man there keep his tongue too, or I’ll make it 
hot for him.” Lieutenant O’Malley then stag- 
gered to his feet, mounted his horse — and the 
“knockout” became a matter of unwritten history, 
not until now divulged. 

He H* ❖ Hs H* * H« 

Upon a high plateau, at the junction of the 
waters of the Mississippi and Minnesota, lies the 
beautiful army post — Fort Snelling — midway be- 
tween the flourishing cities of St. Paul and Minne- 
apolis. Hither, in the spring of ’89, came two 
non-commissioned officers for examination, touch- 
ing their qualifications for promotion to the grade 
of second lieutenants. One was a sergeant of 
cavalry from the 18th Regiment, stationed far out 
amid the Black Hills of Dakota, the other from an 
infantry command in the Northwest. Depart- 
ment orders had been issued requiring them to re- 
port to the C. 0. at Snelling in the chill days of 
March, and when they had assembled, the hand 
of Sergeant Erskine warmly grasped that of Ser- 
geant Miramon. 

Again side by side they sought honors within 
the same walls, under the same flag. For eight 
days the written examinations were continued 
upon the branches in which proficiency was re- 
quired for promotion; and the “board of examin- 
ers” found that both of the sergeants had been well 


252 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

educated, and, so far as their mental attainments 
were concerned, perfectly fitted to fill higher grades 
in rank. At the close of the eighth day the can- 
didates for shoulder straps were directed to hand 
in, on the morrow, a briefly written sketch of their 
past lives. In the late afternoon of that day, 
Sergeants Erskine and Miramon strolled up along 
the banks of the Mississippi until they stood at 
the falls> of Minnehaha, famed in song and story. 

Now, for the first time, the tale was told of the 
sad death of the blonde stranger in the hotel at 
Nuevo Laredo, of the exchange of names, and the 
promise to win honors and fame with which to 
crown it; of the grass-grown tomb and the simple 
shaft. 

“I took up that man’s life as he left it, Yidal, 
and he bequeathed me all that he had to give — 
his tarnished name, his college diplomas, a journal 
of his past life, a few old tear-hlotted letters. My 
past was buried with him, my name is upon his 
tombstone, and I assumed both his life and char- 
acter. My only hope, now, is to be true to the 
trust the dying man reposed in me. From his 
papers, I will prepare the sketch of past life, which 
the board of examiners require of us to-morrow. 
If I win promotion under his name, render honor- 
able service to the Stars and Stripes — my mission 
will be accomplished. In your case, Vidal, I 
alone know the thorny paths your feet have trod- 
den. Give the board your other true history, 
tell them that your father is General Martinez, 
Secretary of War in Mexico, — and, as you must 
have easily passed the mental and physical exami- 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 253 

nation, there will be no question of your promo- 
tion.” 

The laughing waters of Minnehaha Falls rippled 
by, the sun sank behind the trees of the forest, 
the twilight shadows fell, and backward to Fort 
Snelling, Sergeants Erskine and Miramon wended 
their way. In the western sky blazed a guiding 
star — J twas the star of destiny, and they followed 
it. In the little Gothic chapel up beyond the old 
Department Headquarters, there was evening serv- 
ice, and they entered the sacred walls. 

Upon the brow of one rested the brand of Cain, 
for he had slain his adversary upon the field of 
honor; upon the head of the other a heavy price 
had been set and he had met his doom upon the 
brink of the grave his own hands had hollowed 
in the sands. 

Reincarnated under names assumed, they still 
lived, and entered now the house of God to bow 
their heads in silent prayer and penance. The 
notes of the organ rang out low, full, sweet, and 
the voice of the fair organist was softly lifted in 
song. As her sweet, well-modulated voice rose 
and fell, she touched a responsive chord upon the 
heart-strings of Sergeant Malvern Erskine, that 
brought to his eyes quick, burning tears, and a 
flood of memories engulfed him. Seated with her 
piquant face towards the altar, her brown eyes, her 
loved features were not visible; yet the knot of 
coiled rippling hair, the graceful poise, the trim, 
slender figure, her voice — told him that the organ- 
ist was Jessie Thorne. How came she here — so far 
from the banks of the Rivanna? Had she met 
and loved some officer in the passing years, and 


254 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

bestowed her gentle heart and slender hand upon 
one worthy of her affection. Ah ! How his 
troubled heart yearned for a touch of that soft 
palm, for a forgiving look from those tender eyes. 
But no ! The brand of Cain was upon him, a life- 
long stain blotted his name — he must not, dared 
not reveal his presence in the same garrison. 
From afar he feasted his eyes upon her during the 
evening service, and at its close rose hastily and 
hurried out into the night. 

Two years before, the home of J essie Thorne, at 
“Woodland, ” had been plunged into deepest 
mourning and despair. Her father had met 
financial disaster in his old age, and gone sorrow- 
ing to his tomb, leaving his estate heavily in- 
volved. The younger members of the household 
went out into the world to earn a livelihood — to 
gain means with which to pay accruing interest 
on the mortgage upon their treasured home. 
Jessie had answered an advertisement in the 
Star , and secured employment as governess to 
the children of Captain Rodgers, of the artillery. 
With his family she had come to Fort Snelling, 
and was treated as a member of the household, win- 
ning their respect, esteem, then warm affection. 
And now, in the far Northwest, she toiled pa- 
tiently on for the salary, which would add to her 
mother’s comfort — her heart grieving sore for the 
lover of “auld lang syne,” who had released her 
from their engagement and pledges of constancy; 
for a return of the old happy days at “Woodland,” 
before sorrows fell upon her. Yet her lot was not 
so drear, so desolate, as that of her warmest girl- 
hood’s friend, who had loved and married a blonde 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 255 

stranger, Malvern Erskine, and borne him chil- 
dren. He had at first been a kind and loving 
husband, but had listened to tales of slanderous 
tongues and deserted her, whom he had promised 
at the altar to love and cherish. Long months 
had fled, and her girlhood's friend sat dry-eyed 
with intense grief, waiting for news of the hus- 
band and father — but the earth had swallowed 
him up in its great vortex, and he gave no word, 
no sign. 

******* 

Captain Rodgers of the artillery was a member 
of the “board of examiners,” and had marked the 
soldierly bearing and gentlemanly deportment of 
the non-commissioned officers sent up as candi- 
dates for promotion — and was especially gratified 
with the neat, accurate papers handed in by Ser- 
geant Erskine. In his little parlor, he was seated 
among his loved ones on the ninth day of the ex- 
amination, and was musing over the life-sketches 
handed in by the two sergeants to the “board.” 
He had been astonished greatly to find that Ser- 
geant Roberto Miramon had enlisted under a name 
assumed. Turning to his wife he said : 

“Who do you think the handsome Castilian is, 
dear, now asking for a commission in our army? 
He is the son of General Martinez, that grand 
old warrior of Mexico, who has been Secretary of 
War since Juarez overthrew Maximilian, and re- 
established the republic. He left his own land on 
account of being on the losing side in one of those 
revolutionary upheavals of our sister republic. 
He is well-educated in both English and Spanish, 
and without doubt will be promoted.” 


256 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Jessie Thorne was seated in the little home cir- 
cle, toying with the curls of the bright little 
four-year-old pet of the family, and her quick 
ear heard the captain’s remark. It gave her a 
startled, agonizing twinge of remembrance. ’Twas 
from General Martinez’ home in Mexico City that 
Harold De Lacey had penned her his sad farewell ; 
and Vidal Martinez — the bosom friend, the old 
schoolmate, whom Harold had so often told her of 
— was now in Fort Snelling. How strange are 
fate’s decrees, how fitful the shadows which pur- 
sue us. Memory bore her sadly back to the rose 
garden at “Woodland,” when she and Harold had 
plighted their troth; and into her heart now crept 
a tender, womanly yearning to look again into 
those pleading blue eyes of long ago. 

Harold’s friend here in the same garrison — but 
ah ! where were his footsteps straying ? He had 
written that he would tender his sword to the tri- 
colored flag of Mexico, and now, perhaps, was fill- 
ing a soldier’s grave out amid the torrid sands. 
Not a word, not a line had reached her since his 
last heart-breaking letter of eternal farewell. Oh ! 
How dear to her yet, was that fair-haired lover of 
other brighter days. From her clinging memo- 
ries, she was again to be startled — her tender, 
retrospective mood to be changed into one of blaz- 
ing anger. Captain Rodgers was telling his wife 
that the cavalry sergeant from the Black Hills 
brought two diplomas from an old Virginia col- 
lege, and was further fortified with a license as at- 
torney and counsellor at law. He had shown high 
mental attainments, but his life sketch failed to 
set their minds at rest as to his past history. Some 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 257 

vital points were lacking — bnt he had enlisted 
under his own name, and brought splendid endorse- 
ments from his regiment. A query from Mrs. 
Kodgers, who was a Virginian, enlisted the re- 
sponse, which startled Jessie Thorne. The cap- 
tain answered that the name of the cavalryman 
was — “Malvern Erskine.” 

The brown eyes of Jessie Thorne now blazed 
with anger, and she joined in the conversation, 
informing the captain that she could, and would 
clear up the points in Malvern Erskine’s career 
which he had purposely omitted. 

And with flashing eyes she told the tale that 
forever barred Sergeant Erskine from procuring 
a commission in the regular army. Little did 
she dream that the man she spoke of so scornfully, 
whose dark career she now turned the searchlight 
of her anger upon, lay peacefully sleeping beneath 
a whited stone, bearing the inscription — ‘“Harold 
De Lacey.” Ah ! what coals of fire she was heap- 
ing upon the man dearest to her upon earth. 
Her hand was giving him the knife thrust of dis- 
honor. 

******* 

Sergeant Erskine and Miramon parted at St. 
Paul to return to their proper stations, joining 
their commands to await the decisions of the ex- 
amining board. That parting fate decreed should 
be their last on earth. Never again would friendly 
hands be clasped, never again would farewells be 
uttered. A month later, a letter came from the 
Adjutant General’s office at Washington, covered 
with the endorsements of the proper military chan- 
nel, notifying Sergeant Erskine of the regret of 


258 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the A. G. 0. to inform him that the board of offi- 
cers had failed to recommend his promotion to the 
grade of a second lieutenant. A vague presenti- 
ment had already warned him of the result — he 
met it smilingly. To him there was an attraction 
in the rank and file that higher grades did not 
offer. Memories of the past clung to him like 
millstones, and his duties as a non-commissioned 
officer, the jolly camaraderie of the barracks, tent 
or camp fire, charmed his thoughts away from 
sad fields of retrospection. He could and would 
be a thoroughly good soldier, and serve his flag 
faithfully, loyally, even in a subordinate position. 
The months rolled on, and there came to him 
pleasing news of the assignment of Second Lieu- 
tenant Vidal Martinez to the “Unlucky 7th 
Horse.” He had been unanimously recommended 
by the board at Fort Snelling, and was afterward 
ordered to Fortress Monroe for his final quiz. 
Their rank and social positions might be changed 
— the warm, brotherly affection nothing could 
alter. 

In the spring of *90, there were deep murmur- 
ings among the Sioux. A prophecy had been 
uttered by the chief medicine man of the tribe 
that a Messiah was coming, who would deluge the 
earth with floods and drown the “pale faces” that 
had encroached upon the hunting grounds of their 
fathers; but would preserve the Red men in an 
ark of safety. The buffalo would be restored to 
the plains, and the Sioux would once again be- 
come a powerful nation, mighty in their prowess. 
The young braves began their “ghost-dances*” cir- 
cling round and round, chanting weird songs — 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 259 

until they would fall exhausted. When restored 
to consciousness they would relate their experi- 
ences while in a state of trance, all claiming to 
see and converse with the Messiah, who directed 
them to take up arms and slay their enemies, the 
white race. 

At Standing Eock, Eosebud and Pine Eidge 
Agencies, in the Dakotas, all over their reserva- 
tions, the dancing went on, and troops were 
ordered out to stop and disarm them. Soon the 
war of the “ghost-dance” was flashed abroad, and 
the gallant 18th Cavalry and “Unlucky 7th Horse” 
were in the field and slated for a bloody winter 
campaign. Couriers were galloping hither and 
thither, the troops were patrolling the reservations 
in force. At last, the hot skirmishing began, 
and Sitting Bull, who had led his painted war- 
riors against Custer, was now sent to “the happy 
hunting grounds.” Big Foot, with his band, was 
corraled out on the Cheyenne by the 18th, and was 
ordered to deliver up his arms — but escaped under 
cover of darkness and ran amuck of the 7th at 
“Wounded Knee,” where a bloody battle ensued. 
When the smoke cleared away, the gray skies wept 
over a sfcene of desolation and death. Officers and 
men of the 7th, Indian braves, squaws and pap- 
pooses, horses and ponies, lay mingled on the same 
battle ground, wrapped in the mantle of death. 

In the thickest of the fray had been the junior 
lieutenant, Vidal Martinez. Above the din and 
roar of musketry, at short range, his command 
had sounded loud and clear, leading his troopers 
against the foe, urging them on to battle for their 
lives and flag. Six times his revolver had found 


260 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

a living target, and then he grasped the carbine 
and belt of a dead trooper, and fired on until — 
pierced by a dozen wounds — he fell at last, his 
lips faintly uttering the one name : “Harold.” His 
last thought in the throes of death had been of 
his life-long friend and comrade, who was now far 
away with his troop on the banks of Clay Creek 
near the Agency. 

In the Bad Lands, at the Mission, around Pine 
Bidge, the fight for days raged on ; yet no 
friendly bullet came to Sergeant Erskine, no sum- 
mons to join his dead comrade on the other shore. 
He lived to see his flag prevail over the Sioux, 
to win the higher rank of first sergeant of his troop, 
and to wear the “buff diamond” for long years to 
’ come. From far out on the plains of Dakota, a 
black-bordered message of grief and condolence 
was posted to General Martinez, telling him that 
Vidal had died on the field of battle, crowned with 
undying laurels in the service of the Stars and 
Stripes. He had met death bravely, and now 
filled a soldier’s honored grave in the land of his 
adoption. 

The years fled rapidly on and First Sergeant 
Erskine won the respect and love of his troop, 
followed his guidon faithfully, honorably. In 
the world’s broad arena, amid the vast plains of 
the West, mingled with the thousands of “boys in 
blue,” he was completely lost to the view of those 
who knew and loved him. In the seething waters 
of fate’s Charybdis, his barque had gone down — 
the sun rose and set only upon the floating drift- 
wood of his past. 

At last there came a day, when his second term 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 261 

of service expired in the 18th Cavalry, and his 
heart appealed to him to bid farewell to his old 
flag, to his loyal comrades, to the gallant steed 
that loved his master well, to the regimental asso- 
ciations, and go forth into the world as a stranger 
to view the changes time had wrought. His de- 
cision was announced to his commander and com- 
rades, and they urged him to remain with them 
in the old wild tent life of the plain ; but destiny 
drew him onward, away from the guidon he had 
long followed, voices long hushed now called to 
him from the graves of his past. His comrades 
bestowed upon him a beautiful watch of Black 
Hills gold, with the inscription — “From com- 
rades, real or leal, of Troop ‘A/ 18th Cavalry/’ 
And farewells were spoken. 

Whither would his footsteps lead? Could civil 
life long offer attractions to him, whose ear seemed 
attuned only to trumpet notes? 


262 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

For centuries the Spanish flag of “blood and 
gold” had floated over the Island of Cuba, the 
“Pearl of the Antilles.” Insurrection and revolt 
had, after various attempts, and a ten-years’ war, 
failed to vanquish the oppressors, the yoke of 
tyranny was still firmly fastened upon the necks 
of the islanders. Groaning under their weight of 
taxation, scarred and bleeding from the lash of 
Spain, the Cubans again hoisted their “Lone Star 
Banner,” under the leadership of the grand old 
patriot, General Maximo Gomez. 

After the ten-years’ war, and the insurgent 
leaders had signed the treaty of Zanjou, over his 
protests, General Gomez had written in despair: 
“I have finished here. Cuba cannot be free.” Look- 
ing backward to the loved, though desolate shores, 
where he had won undying fame fighting the 
legions of Spain, he had sought service in Hon- 
duras. When the snows of age had whitened his 
hair, and his footprints had been swept away by 
the ebb and flow of many tides, he sought again 
his old home at Monte Christo in the Island of 
Santo Domingo. Here, amid the mountains and 
vales of his native land, he was sought out by the 
Cuban patriot, Jose Julian Marti, and together 
they sailed for the eastern coast of Cuba, and on 
an April day in ? 95 were hailed by the insurgent 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 263 

forces — the banner of the “Lone Star” floated to 
the breeze. The fires of youth still burned brightly 
in his withered frame, and being inured to every 
hardship and danger, he gathered together the 
sinews of war. 

From Costa Eica had come a well-equipped, ex- 
pedition under General Maceo — and the brands of 
war were kindled all over the island. Across the 
ocean sailed Marshal Campos from Spain, to be 
followed by thousands of raw, unacclimated troops, 
and rivers of blood flowed at Palmarito, Jorito 
and Dos Eios in the coming weeks, with varying 
successes. At Bayamo the Cuban forces proved 
their heroic spirit, and made a desperate and suc- 
cessful resistance to Spain’s marshalled hosts. 
“Cuba Libre” was the battle cry on bloody fields 
which followed, and small bands of insurgents 
harassed the troops sent against them. Poorly 
armed and equipped, living on the soil, they 
fought on valiantly — and the cry of “al machete” 
sent a thrill of terror to disciplined troops. 

Thousands of additional forces were rushed 
from Cadiz across the Atlantic to quell the insur- 
rection ; many a free-lance from the United 
States, Mexico and Central America joined the 
standard of the “Lone Star” in the cause of lib- 
erty, and freedom from oppression. One by one 
the colonies on the American continent had thrown 
off the galling yoke of Spain — now Cuba must be 
free, and patriots offered their services to battle 
for the right. A permanent government was estab- 
lished, a constitution adopted, and through the 
mists of futurity patriot eyes peered for liberty’s 


264 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Filibustering expeditions evaded the watchful 
mariners of Spain along the coast, landing arms, 
supplies and men eager to join Cuba’s flag. A 
bloody battle was fought at Taguasco, and Gen- 
eral Campos was defeated, forced to retreat be- 
fore the onslaught of Gomez and Maceo, who were 
leading the insurgents. 

In December, ’95, the Cubans marched onward 
through victories into the province of Havana it- 
self, and the capital city trembled in expectation 
of attack. Cuban arms had conquered half of the 
island, and to prevent Spain from hypothecating 
a loan from France on the basis of the sugar crop, 
applied the torch and flame. The skies were lighted 
up for hundreds of miles by blazing canefields 
and sugar mills. War with all its attendant 
horrors raged, and want began to stalk abroad 
among the non-combatants. The mild policy of 
General Campos on the island did not suit the 
fierce leaders of the Spanish Cortez, and he was 
recalled, to be replaced by the ferocious butcher, 
General Valeriano Weyler, to whom were attrib- 
uted more deaths by far than were caused by the 
ravages of yellow fever. Trochas of barbed wire 
were stretched across the island, the “reconcentra- 
tion orders” issued, and all pacificos were gathered 
within the fortified lines to rot with starvation 
and disease. The horrors committed bv “Butcher 
Weyler” caused the whole civilized world to stand 
aghast, and wonder how a human being; could di- 
rect such atrocities in a Christian land. The re- 
lief given by the International Red Cross Society 
could avail but little — yet the awful, heart-rending 
reports they brought of misery and disease among 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 265 

the reconcentrados wrung the hearts of Americans 
to their innermost recesses. 

******* 

When the reconcentration policy of “Butcher 
Weyler” had practically stamped out of existence 
the insurrection in the province of Pinar del Rio, 
General Gomez made his itinerant headquarters 
in the field, between Sancti Spiritus and Jucaro- 
Moron trocha. His semblance of a headquarters 
tent consisted of a well-worn fly with the corners 
attached to limbs of trees or poles, his couch a 
grass hammock, his field equipage a camp stool. 
Into the general’s camp, in the twilight, rode a 
tall, blonde, soldierly extrangero, armed with 
sword, pistol and Winchester, accompanied only 
by a Cuban guide. 

In excellent Spanish, the stranger notified the 
wary old chieftain that for many days he had 
sought him in person, encountering many dangers 
and risks of capture, in order to tender his serv- 
ices to the “Lone Star Banner,” to fight the bat- 
tles of liberty. He had served in Mexico, and 
also under the Stars and Stripes for years upon 
the Western frontiers, and now desired to make 
Cuba’s cause his own. 

“Mi nombre , Senor , es — Malvern Erskine,” he 
said. 

Again had the voices within called him to a 
standard ; his ear longed to hear the trumpet note. 
Civil life had offered few attractions — his heart 
was still bowed down by bitter memories. As a 
stranger he had viewed the changes, the ruins 
wrought by time in the haunts of his youth; the 
brand of Cain was still upon him, the ashen face 


266 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

of Major Gonzales still glaring at him across the 
Mexican sands. For him there could be no rain- 
bow of promise in love’s sky, and his star of destiny 
led him thither to the camp of Cuba’s commander- 
in-chief. He was warmly welcomed, for he was 
a trained soldier, and might render valuable serv- 
ice to the Cuban cause. Upon the recommenda- 
tion of General Gomez, he was commissioned as a 
lieutenant colonel, and offered a place as aide-de- 
camp to his gallant old chief. 

On “ April’s Foolday” in the year ’96, the new 
aid — Lieutenant Colonel Erskine — received his 
first instructions in Cuban strategy. His wily 
chief moved his itinerant camp between two Span- 
ish columns, and detailed two of his aids to bear 
messages to each of the commanders that he was 
ready to give battle. Lieutenant Colonel Erskine, 
under a flag of truce, galloped alone into the 
Spanish stronghold and delivered the gauge of bat- 
tle, and was permitted to return to his chief. 
Simultaneously, the other message was conveyed 
to the other column, and then General Gomez 
struck his tents and galloped away with his escort 
to watch the outcome of the shrewd strategy. 
Trumpet calls were sounded, hastily calling both 
columns to arms, and quickly they converged in 
line of battle upon the supposed fighting force of 
the insurgent leader. All along both lines the 
Spaniards fired upon each other, and a fierce 
skirmish ensued for some time before they discov- 
ered their mistake. A grim smile played about the 
lips of General Gomez, as from afar he watched 
the Spanish bullets deplete their own opposing 
ranks. 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 2d7 

Cuban arms were victorious at La Chuza, Ca- 
carajicara, and Punta Brava. General Maeeo, 
with a small force of followers broke through the 
irociia in June — and among his forces none were 
more vengeful and relentless than the amazons 
who followed his standard. Before Spanish mus- 
ketry their fathers, husbands, brothers, sons had 
gone down to death, and they fought among the 
men in ranks like Spartans, daring, fearless, eager 
for revenge. 

The nations of earth looked on still with horror 
at the atrocities practiced; with great concern 
over the loss of trade and dangers to commerce in 
West Indian waters. In '97 there were varying 
successes on fields of battle — Spain offered 
autonomy, which was spurned and scoffed at. Lib- 
erty only, and entire defeat of the flag of “blood 
and gold" could pacify them. The downfall of 
Victoria de las Tunas, which Weyler had reported 
as impregnable, caused his recall to Spain ; yet his 
bloody footprints were stamped upon tens of thou- 
sands of graves on the desolate shores, which saw 
him no more. His successor, Marshal Blanco, 
sailed into the harbor of Havana, bringing his 
sword in one hand, in the other a small olive 
branch to offer to the remnant of a once populous 
race. But almost within their grasp hung the 
tempting fruit their hearts craved — liberty, inde- 
pendence. 

No man in the army of the insurgents had 
borne himself more gallantly than the American — 
Lieutenant Colonel Erskine— and lie had fought 
with sword and pen under the “Lone Star Ban- 
ner." Familiar with the departments of govern- 


268 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

ment in the United States, knowing the senti- 
ments of that great people, his pen had been 
mightier far than his sword in lending aid to the 
inchoate Cuban republic. 

By the “underground route” his letters had 
been borne to his native shores, informing the 
great journals of war’s progress, of the want and 
disease which ravaged the length and breadth of 
Cuba’s isle. His own grief had been forgotten — 
his heart was now filled to overflowing by the woes 
of the desolated land, whose flag he served. In- 
ured by long service to the hardships of field and 
camp in many climes, he long withstood sickness, 
but at last he became racked by fever, and for days 
lay unconscious in a field hospital, lingering on 
and on between life and death. A convalescent, 
who himself was just recovering from any illness, 
became his devoted nurse — and no brother could 
have more tenderly cared for him, than did this 
swarthy colonel of insurgents, ho a year before 
had joined the Cuban army, coming from the 
shores of Mexico with a strong party of filibusters. 
Lieutenant Colonel Erskine suffered on, his mind 
wandering in delirium over the highways of his 
past, his lips revealing both the sweet and dark 
secrets which filled the pent-house of his mind. 
As he would cry out in pain over the wild dis- 
orders of his fevered brain, and memories came to 
him of that meeting on the sands, the life blood 
of his slain foe ebbing fast away in the early 
dawn, tears would fill the eyes of his nurse and 
glisten upon his long, dark iashes. At last came 
the change ; the fever had spent its force, and con- 
sciousness returned to the weak and emaciated 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 269 

frame. As the bright sun was sinking into the 
western waters, and its fiery glow filled the hos- 
pital tent, the fever patient opened his eyes and 
looked into the swarthy face of the colonel who 
had nursed him back to life — the fac. of the man 
his hand had slain — Major Gonzales. 

H* * ifc * * ❖ * 

For some years Louis De Lacey had been a 
Senator of the United States, and his party had 
found in the gallant son of Louisiana a brilliant, 
aggressive leader. Jurist, statesman, diplomat — 
his State had been proud to honor him, and in 
the Senate chamber his silver tongue was a power- 
ful friend or foe to any bill presented in that 
august body. Since his sojourn in the city of Ha- 
vana at the close of the war, his heart had bled 
over the wrongs of the Cuban people. Now, after 
“Butcher Weyler” had been recalled, and Mar- 
shal Blanco had come to the desolate shores offer- 
ing amnesty and home rule. Senator De Lacey 
went on a personal tour of investigation in order 
that he might view with his own eyes the con- 
dition of affairs in Havana, and its environs. Be- 
fore his gaze — after he sailed into the harbor 
under Morro’s frowning walls and entered upon 
his tour of observation — was outspread such a dire 
vista of misery and suffering that his own sorrows 
vanished before the sad pictures presented to him 
on every hand. Pen could not describe, even his 
silver tongue could not portray the agonies of the 
pacificos. 

Back he hastened to Washington, and in the 
Senate he lifted a voice, which first rang with 
fierce invective and bitter denunciation against 


270 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Spanish misrule, then with power and pathos drew 
such a picture of want and woe in Cuba’s isle, that 
not an eye in that chamber was dry, not a heart 
but was bowed down with sorrow. Could they 
longer sit idly by and fail to take some action, 
which would ameliorate the condition of these 
starving people? Should not America, all the 
nations of Europe rise up in their might and stay 
the barbarous outrages, the atrocious crimes 
against civilization, which Spain was daily com- 
mitting? The hour was near, the tempest of 
wrath was soon to break — and the flag of “blood 
and gold” to be forever banished from Cuba’s isle, 
from West Indian waters. 

To the Cuban Junta in New York there came 
in the last days of January a trusted messenger 
from the camp of General Gomez — Colonel Mal- 
vern Erskine — bearing dispatches of urgent im- 
port. He was yet pale and weak from his illness, 
but from his brow the brand of Cain had been 
strangely removed, his heart was now singing 
glad pagans of joy. Major Gonzales had lived, 
but for weary months the angel of death had hov- 
ered over him. He had been retired for disability ; 
but, as the years passed on, he had fully recov- 
ered and finally offered his services to the Cuban 
flag. Thus they had met at last and the “dead 
past” was permitted to bury its dead — they 
parted as friends, as brothers. 

When Colonel Erskine had performed his duties 
and delivered his dispatches, he hastened to Wash- 
ington. Finding, upon his arrival, that his father 
was addressing the Senate, he wended his way 
thither and from the lobby listened to that stirring 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 271 

appeal for “Cuba libre.” In the cloakroom, after 
the delivery of that address, there was another 
meeting after the lapse of fifteen long, sad years; 
and Louis De Lacey clasped in his loving arms his 
long-lost boy, Harold. 

Fifteen years — ah! Fortune, whither had thy 
beacon led? The garlands woven in youth were 
withered, dead — yet futurity would cause new 
flowers to bloom along life’s pathway, and hope 
once crushed to earth would rise again from the 
ashes of despair. Senator De Lacey had long 
passed his threescore years, and the once raven 
hair now rippled in snow-white clusters about his 
broad temples ; yet there was brilliancy in his dark 
eyes, his figure was still erect, there was elasticity 
in his step. 

For many years he had mourned for his fair- 
haired boy, who now came back to him as a man 
in his thirty-eighth year. With hand clasped in 
hand, they now stood face to face, and gently lifted 
the veil which enshrouded the past, revealing their 
footprints on the sands. 

At sunset they drove out to Virginia avenue, 
and through the windows of the home of the 
Spencers the last rays of sunlight fell upon the 
happiest group in Washington. Within that 
charming circle were seated, before the ruddy glow 
of blazing chestnut logs, Lionel and Mary Spencer, 
their son Harold, a brown-eyed, stalwart youth 
of sixteen, much like his father, and their azure- 
eyed, fair-haired lassie of fourteen summers, 
Juanita, a counterpart of the Mary Preston of 
long ago. A ring of the bell sounded, their visi- 
tors were announced, and from the tomb of the 


272 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

past they joyfully greeted the wanderer — Harold 
De Lacey — who now, with his father, was ad- 
mitted to their charming home. 

“Oh! Harold,” Mary Spencer exclaimed, after 
looking long and earnestly into the face of the man 
she so loved as a child and boy, “how could you 
remain away all these years in foreign lands and 
never make a sign, or send a token, by which we 
might know that all was well ?” 

“Cousin Mary, I was until recently under lower- 
ing clouds, both in my own and foreign lands, but 
the silver lining came after many days. Fifteen 
years ago I wrote you a repentant letter of fare- 
wall, telling you that you would never see me 
again until I had won the eagles of a colonel under 
some foreign flag. In these years I have served in 
Mexico, under the Stars and Stripes and also the 
“Lone Star” of Cuba. A few weeks ago, that 
struggling republic conferred upon me my re- 
ward, and as a colonel and aid to General Maximo 
Gomez, of the insurgent army, I return to you. 
Now stand to attention and give me a proper 
salute.” In mock curtesy the family all saluted 
the returning prodigal, and joy reigned. 

Turning to Lionel Spencer Colonel De Lacey, 
in reminiscent mood, said: “After many years > 
service under the starry banner, wearing the uni- 
form of flflue and buff/ I applied to the A. G. 0. 
for discharge from the army of the United States, 
and when the favor was granted and the order 
issued, it came back to me signed, ‘Lionel Spencer, 
Asst. Adjt. General/ So, Cousin Mary, I sent your 
husband a token, and long have carried his auto- 
graph.” 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 273 

“You bore an assumed name then, Harold, all 
those years, while we mourned your absence,' an- 
swered Mary Spencer. The past was forgotten in 
that household, and the living present was made 
one of light and joyousness. Shadows took wing; 
they could not find a habitation in the happy home 
presided over by Mary Spencer. Her presence was 
like the sunlight to husband, children, friends — 
forever giving out subtle warmth and brightness. 
Beneath that roof Harold De Lacey was reincar- 
nated, laying aside the toga of assumption, which 
long had rested upon his shoulders. 

Through the Cuban Junta in Hew York he for- 
warded his resignation, and the coming weeks, 
amid such pleasant environments, restored to his 
cheek the bloom of health, to his heart the glad- 
ness of boyhood. 

On the morning of February the 16th, in the 
year ’98, the American people mingled their tears 
over the watery graves of 266 gallant mariners or 
sailors, who had gone down in the murky depths of 
Havana’s harbor, in the darkness of the preceding 
night. The Maine had been blown up by external 
forces at the pier to which she had been assigned 
by the Spanish harbor master. The nations of 
earth secretly laid the explosion to Spanish plot 
and treachery. The temper and patience of the 
American people could ill brook the tedious in- 
vestigation of cause and effect. Blood, which for 
years had coursed through peaceful channels, was 
now at fighting heat. The wires from every state 
in the brilliant galaxy of union brought urgent 
messages to their representatives in Congress to 


274 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

act at once. The flag of Spain should be forever 
banished from Columbia’s shores — the Maine must 
be avenged. The dying groans of martyrs called 
out loudly against the treachery and butchery of 
the nation, whose banner was of “blood and gold.” 

Famine and pestilence were raging at our doors 
on the adjacent island of Cuba, and American 
purses were liberally opened, the funds distributed 
by the Red Cross Society amid many difficulties. 
“Bleeding Cuba,” “Cuba libre” were the cries all 
over the union, and the government was forced to 
prepare for war. When the House bill, appro- 
priating $50,000,000 for defense, reached the Sen- 
ate on the 9th of March, Louis De Lacey arose and 
loud and clear his silver tones rang through the 
chamber demanding its passage without a dissent- 
ing vote. He said: “There must be war. Hu- 
manity can no longer resist the appeals of the 
naked, starving pacificos. The hulk of the Maine , 
the graves of our dead mariners call out to us for 
vengeance. Spain is marshaling her hosts on land 
and sea to give us battle. We must not be idle. 
We should vote not only for ‘millions for de- 
fense,’ but also rise up in our righteous wrath and 
declare to the nation ‘millions for aggression.’ Let 
us not pause to await the invasion of our shores 
by a Spanish! fleet, but meet them on the high seas 
and sink them in the bottomless ocean, where the 
sweeping waves may hide their iniquities.” From 
far and near, gathered in Washington grizzled 
warriors, bronzed by service on the plains, or upon 
the stormy waters of the seas. The fires of their 
youth returned, after days of long retirement 
from active service, and they were eager to assist 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 275 

in plan or strategy, anxious to again take up arms 
in humanity’s cause. 

There was no North, no South, no East, no 
West — all were bound by one common tie; the 
starry banner waved at last over a union of broth- 
erhood. Issues of the past were buried in one 
common grave — united voices loud proclaimed: 
“The Maine must be avenged, Cuba must be free.” 

From Monterey, in Mexico, from the Rappa- 
hannock, in Virginia, came General Jack Heath- 
cote and Henry Preston to the nation’s capital. 
Though both were nearing the fourscore mile- 
stone, and the snows of age rested upon them, 
they walked together to the lobbies of Congress 
with upright frames and military stride. If too 
old for the camp and field, their advice might be 
of service to the government — they were still 
anxious to serve their old flag. 

War was imminent, and the storm broke at last 
in all its fury on both land and sea. Squadrons 
had been gathered in Southern waters, troops 
rushed to Southern camps. The President issued 
his proclamation calling for 125,000 volunteers — 
and so many more responded than were required, 
that the finest body of men ever put in the field 
were gathered under the Stars and Stripes in 
Southern and Eastern camps, ready for embarka- 
tion. A second call brought 75,000 more volun- 
teers, and thousands were turned away. The 
President had called to private conference many 
of the grizzled veterans of the Civil War, and of 
long frontier service. From them he had sought 
advice, gained many a brilliant idea for the con- 
duct of hostilities.. 


276 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Generals Heathcote and Preston, after long dis- 
cussion, had decided that the most perfect troops 
for the warfare on Cuban soil would be plainsmen 
from the far West, who were expert horsemen and 
excellent marksmen, hardy and fearless. When 
they were called in, at the request of the President, 
and were closeted with him, they unfolded their 
decision and recommended the plan of enlistment 
as a feasible one. Their advice resulted in the 
formation of three regiments of these Rough 
Riders — and Harold De Lacey was commissioned 
as colonel, Roi Heathcote as lieutenant colonel of 
one of these bodies of daring horsemen. 

While land troops and naval squadrons were be- 
ing massed and equipped on American shores, Ad- 
miral Dewey had sailed into the harbor of Manila 
and swept the Spanish flag from his path, with- 
out the loss of a man. 

In June the troops were embarked from Tampa 
and landed at Daiquiri, Siboney and Aguadores — 
a summer campaign in the tropics was before them. 
The Rough Riders under Colonel Harold De Lacey 
were destined to play an important part in the 
battles about Santiago. Though dismounted, they 
entered the thickest of the fight at San Juan and 
El Caney, and the whistles of Mauser bullets 
was as music to their ears. Long inured to the 
blazing suns of Texas, Hew Mexico and Arizona, 
accustomed to the rough slopes, the dense 
jungles, the cold dews of the borders, the 
barbed wire fences of their Western prairies, 
they withstood with their usual hardihood the 
dangers and hardships into which their intrepid 
leader urged them. Through brake and bramble, 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 277 

armed with rifle and wire nippers, they moved 
steadily on, and before their daring advance 
to close quarters the Spaniards wavered and fled 
in confusion from trench and block house. 

Hemmed in by land forces, the gateway to the 
open sea closed by the guns of the American 
fleet — Santiago must soon fall. Admiral Cervera 
sought to escape through the cordon of battleships, 
but was crushed and shattered by the watchful 
Schley. Two Spanish fleets had now been swept 
off the seas by American gunnery, and on the 17th 
day of July the flag of “blood and gold” was 
hauled down — the Stars and Stripes floated vic- 
toriously over Santiago de Cuba. But climatic 
sickness now filled the American camp, and thou- 
sands of the “boys in blue” suffered the ravages 
of disease. The summer season was far more 
deadly than Spanish Mausers — the ranks were 
rapidly depleted by fevers, “Taps” were sounded 
over many a soldier’s grave in that distant land. 
Pressure was brought to bear on the War Depart- 
ment, and troops were withdrawn as rapidly as 
possible from the fever-stricken district and re- 
turned to Camp Wikoff, on Long Island, where a 
quarantine and convalescent camp was established. 

The Rough Riders under Colonel De Lacey had 
crowned themselves with undying wreaths of 
laurel, yet many a lonely grave about Santiago 
held a comrade who had sacrificed his life in hu- 
manity’s cause. Back with depleted rank and file 
they sailed for Montauk Point, from the shores 
their blood had dyed, and the transport ship bore 
many a fever-racked trooper. Upon the deck of 


278 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

the speeding barque, beneath the brilliant blazonry 
of the Southern skies, sat Colonel Harold De Lacey 
on the first night out at sea. Roi Heathcote, who 
had gallantly served his flag as lieutenant colonel 
of Rough Riders, was just convalescing from tropi- 
cal fever, and had turned in to his stateroom to 
avoid the dampness of the night air. Alone with 
his memories Harold De Lacey was treading the 
footpaths of retrospection. For sixteen years, the 
image of a brown-eyed daughter of Virginia had 
been enshrined in his heart — and now she was far- 
away at Fort Snelling, or some other garrison in 
the West, perhaps as the wife of some officer in 
the army. When he had hurriedly made his exit 
from the chapel, on that night she acted as organ- 
ist, he had not dared to make an inquiry. Her 
sweet voice yet rang in his ears, singing — 

“Though like a wanderer , the sun gone down. 
Darkness he over me, my rest a stone ” 

Ah! If she were only free from other bonds, 
how earnestly he would now plead for forgiveness, 
on bended knee would he seek a renewal of her 
love. He had imposed upon himself years of self- 
exile, void of hope and affectionate ties — and these 
years were now numbered with the ashes of his 
past. 

Dreaming on beneath the brilliant skies, the 
swishing waves singing a musical lullaby, the gen- 
tle breeze producing languor, he fell asleep in his 
deck chair, and the bells struck the hour of mid- 
night. The watches were changed, the Red Cross 
nurses were relieved and came forth from the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 279 

fetid hospital wards of the transport to secure rest 
and fresh air. One of the trim, uniformed female 
attendants crossed the deck near the officer in 
khaki, who slumbered under the bright skies with 
his broad-brimmed campaign hat drawn down 
over his heavily bearded face. Leaning against the 
guard rails, looking far out upon the broad ex- 
panse of waters, above which glowed the “South 
ern Cross,” she softly hummed oL. airs she had 
learned in childhood. Forgetful of time and 
place, busied with haunting memories, she at last 
gently raised her voice and sang the old sweet 
words of the song, “When the Swallows Home- 
ward Fly.” 

On the night winds, the notes were borne to the 
ears of Colonel De Lacey, and gradually he roused 
himself from his dreamy, languorous slumbers, 
his eyes falling upon the figure of the Red Cross 
nurse at the rails. The voice, the graceful figure 
was that of Jessie Thorne. All barriers were swept 
away by glad forgetfulness. If she were not free, 
her life would never have been offered to the holy 
cause she served. 

Slowly, softly he approached her, and with 
trembling hands outstretched, he interrupted her 
song by lovingly, reverently uttering the sweetest, 
dearest of all names to him — “Jessie.” Like a 
frightened bird she hushed her song, and poised 
her wings ready to fly from this khaki specter of 
the night, but his voice reassured her. Startled 
from her reveries of life’s summer long gone, she 
turned her brown eyes full upon this vision of a 
colonel of Rough Riders — bronzed, bearded, but 
with pleading blue eyes and outstretched hands, 


280 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

fondly calling to her from the grave of buried 
years. 

“Oh! Harold, is it — can it be you? Speak to 
me. Tell me if this is but a feverish fancy ?” 

A pair of strong, warm hands clasped hers firm- 
ly, the voice of the lover of her girlhood poured 
into her willing ear the “old, old story,” told long 
years before at “Woodland” — and the glowing 
stars above looked down and smiled upon them at 
last. Seated upon the deck of the transport, speed- 
ing like the swallows to nests on native shores, 
they sat far into the small hours of morning, roam- 
ing over the paths their feet had trodden in sixteen 
long saddened years. 

At twenty-two and seventeen, the gates of 
“Woodland” had parted them — now at thirty-eight 
and thirty-three they again clasped hands across 
the bridge of a sorrowful past. Futurity could 
yet offer to them years of wedded happiness — 
over them bent, after long waiting, the glorious 
rainbow of promise. 

* * * * * * * 

On the 12th day of August, peace was declared — 
the war between the United States and Spain had 
ended. The “God of Battles” had crowned Amer- 
ican arms with victory — the war in humanity’s 
cause had triumphed. The “Yankee” and “Johnnie 
Reb” had slept upon the battlefields, in the 
trenches, side bv side beneath the “Union Ban- 
ner,” heart with heart they had fought with gal- 
lantry and courage under its folds. Bands played 
medleys of “Yankee Doodle” and “Dixie” — -the 
American people were firm united in eternal broth- 
erhood. On land and sea the Stars and Stripes 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 281 

were proudly floating — the nation had proven its 
strength and power to all the earth. Many genera- 
tions had passed since a wedding had taken place 
at Sunnyside, on the banks of the Rappahannock, 
and General Preston and his wife had successfully 
arranged a grand reunion programme and a mar- 
riage feast for the 13th day of December — the 
date of Harold De Lacey’s birth, the day chosen 
for his marriage. Jessie Thorne had been or- 
phaned two years before, “Woodland” was now 
tenanted by strangers. Geraldine Preston had 
taken the lonely girl into her heart and home — 
and now Harold fondly pointed out to his fiancee 
the paths of his childhood, the haunts of his early 
years at Sunnyside, during the beautiful days of 
summer and autumn. Down they strolled to the 
cabin of “old Aunt Caroline,” now nearing the 
century mark. Through the dim eyes of age, she 
gazed fondly upon them, joined their hands and 
pronounced her blessing upon their future union. 

“Fse powerful glad dat de marri’ge is gwine ter 
be at Sunnyside, Mars Harry. I ain’t seen a wed- 
din’ in dat house fur many a day. Hit ’ill fetch 
good luck shoah. Dis little brown-eyed gal ’ill 
make you settle down, too, an’ quit a wand’rin’ 
all ober de wurld,” said she. 

In the early days of December, Sunnyside was 
flooded with greater brightness than it had known 
for many years. Every guest chamber was filled, 
and beneath the hospitable roof were gathered 
General Heathcote and Juanita, General De Leon 
and Florence, with their dark-eyed boy, Lieuten- 
ant-Colonel Roi Heathcote, Senator De Lacey and 
the Spencers from the capital, and Robert Thorne, 


282 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

a brother of the bride-to-be and classmate of 
Harold’s. There was music, song and laughter 
— and elderly hearts imbibed a new lease of life. 
Best of all, the 13th dawned fair and bright, and 
the sunlight fell with brilliant rays upon the first 
snow of winter. Not a cloud gathered in the blue 
skies — the day was auspicious of future brightness 
for Harold De Lacey and Jessie Thorne. At the 
noon-tide, when the sun had reached its zenith, 
the marriage vows were spoken, two lives were 
blended in one. 

* * * * * * * 

A week later, Colonel Harold De Lacey and 
his brown-eyed wife, Jessie, were speeding west- 
ward to the sun-kissed shores of Mexico. Only 
one secret of his past had been concealed from 
her who now bore his name. This he had prom- 
ised to tell her, while Christmas bells were ring- 
ing their glad refrains upon both banks of the 
Rio Grande. Some weeks before, he had shipped 
from Washington a weighty package of freight, 
addressed to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. On Christ- 
mas eve, in that year ? 98, the travellers crossed 
the muddy waters of the stream which separates 
the shores of the sister republics. They sought 
shelter beneath the same roof, under which twelve 
years before, Harold De Lacey had exchanged 
names with the dying man — Malvern Erskine. 
At dawn the Christmas bells rang out. and far 
and near across the sandy plains were borne the 
silvery chimes of “Peace on earth, good will to 
men.” Arrangements had been perfected by mail 
to carry out the wishes of Harold De Lacey, and 
when the carriage bore him and his bride to the 


Colonel Harold De Lacey. 283 

cemetery, the old sexton was at the gateway to 
meet his benefactor, who had sent him regular 
quarterly remittances. 

By the side of the grave, which had been dug 
and filled twelve years before, stood a new and 
veiled tombstone. The mound was grass-grown, 
clinging vines overspread the once white shaft 
bearing the simple inscription : “Harold De 
Lacey. ” Now the stone, gray with age, was lifted 
and the encircling tendrils removed, revealing to 
Jessie’s startled gaze the name of her husband. 
An exclamation of surprise was checked by a de- 
taining gesture. From the new tombstone he 
lifted the covering, and she read: 

“Sacred to the Memory 
, of 

Malvern Erskine, 

Died Dec. 24th, 1886. 

May he rest in peace.” 

“Oh ! Harold,” she exclaimed, “by what strange 
fatality did that man cross your path ?” 

Hastily he told her the strange, sad story. 

“Then I, who loved you so fondly, so devotedly, 
cast the obstacles in your path which prevented 
your promotion. Oh ! Harold, forgive me ; for I 
did you an irreparable injury. My lips supplied 
the points in your sketch of this man’s life, that 
you left open to inquiry. I ruined your chances 
for advancement — I spoke harshly of the dead. 
May God forgive me.” 

“It matters not, Jessie; ‘let the dead past bury 
its dead’ — and let us pray that the Recording 


284 Colonel Harold De Lacey. 

Angel has blotted this man's dark pages with a 
tear." 

The old moss-grown stone was broken, work- 
men set up the new shaft in its stead — and the 
mission of Harold De Lacey was ended. 

On that Christmas night, as the train bore them 
across the bridge which spans the Rio Grande, 
the clocks struck the hour of midnight — and from 
both shores were borne to them the sentries' cries 
of “All's well." 


FINIS. 














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«V. le 1902 


1 COI-V UfcL- o LAI 

WAV 16 1902 




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